


Writings with mcyt

by JaybirdTheAuthor



Category: Minecraft - Fandom, Minecraft youtube, youtube - Fandom
Genre: 30 Days of Writing, I’ll change lots of tags, Multi, Other, SO, but I like writember, flufftober or kinktober, i didn’t particularly feel drawn to October, minecraft youtube - Freeform, soft shit, sorry I’m just a college student, write November!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:48:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 30,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaybirdTheAuthor/pseuds/JaybirdTheAuthor
Summary: Writember! November prompts and I thought ‘fuck I’m a busy college student why not take more on’.Based on personas, not personalities. Basically not based on the people
Relationships: Fundy/Dream, GeorgeNotFound/Wilbur Soot, Some Romance - Relationship, more added - Relationship, sleepy boys inc - Relationship, some platonic - Relationship
Comments: 1
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter number 1: Crisp air. 
> 
> Georgebur, kinda soft, I think it’s fluffy but I wouldn’t call it fluff. 
> 
> I’m just a gay college student who reads horror novels, I don’t know about fluff and shit. It’s hopefully okay, like my sixth romance writing.

“I just think the album is a bit odd, not in a bad way necessarily but I don’t think I’d buy it if I heard any songs from it. It’s just weird to get used to, the style is so different yet the best song on the album is the same style as before. I don’t know if I am alone on that opinion, I just think it’s unusual and not really—it doesn’t really pay off for what it is!” Wilbur rants, George nodding along to his critical views on the latest news on one of their favourite bands as Wilbur just continues, “I mean do you like it? I know you’ve become a fan because I recommended it to you and you don’t have the same nostalgia for it but I just think it’s aimed at someone who necessarily wouldn’t be listening to them. They’re aiming at people who would never look into them. If I liked country music, I would never look at a band like that. Especially since it’s, I don’t know, it sounds like British country. I didn’t know you could make British country music but here we are. Like it was enough of an issue to learn there’s British hip hop but like British country. I don’t know. Maybe you get it better?”

“Not really,” George confesses, feeling the blow of the wind and sort of curling in on himself with a slight smile. He doesn’t really mind crisper air, especially when they’re out pretty late, but it still does freeze him a bit, “You know I’m more into rap. I don’t think you can get further from rap than country or classical. So naturally I’m not a huge fan, even without the uncanny valley feeling a British accent gives it.”

“Here’s hoping the next album is better,” Wilbur speaks with a smile, just a slight one, before looking over to George to continue his sentence, “Was thinking about getting you the album.”

“And what’s the use?” George questions with a raised eyebrow, still incredibly cold, he totally didn’t wear a light shirt thinking they’d only be out to go to the super market what—four hours ago? Naturally they have taken way longer, just talking and walking the stone beach of the Queen’s country, “Wilbur, we both have Spotify.”

“I thought it would be kind of cute,” Wilbur explains with a smile, eyeing George and his shivers before slipping his coat off, “You know how back in ‘02, everyone made each other mixtapes? I thought it would be cute to do something similar for you. Like a physical thing to put into a radio if that happens to be the only entertainment. Can’t help being a hopeless romantic, George.”

He blushes, if slightly, hopefully capable of blaming it on the crisp air as his eyes close to listen to the trees ruffling with the strength of the wind. It’s a nice sound, one of his favourites, it’s calming to hear trees getting the shit beaten out of them by the wind. But seriously. The sound is a bit violent but so calming at the same time, calm and pretty while also sounding like Hell has been unleashed—the cold makes it less nice, it’s just cold and standing still makes him realise it far more than just a moment previous. Somewhere, in the back of his head, this still reminds him of Disney. Maybe it’s Peter Pan, the visuals of flying in front of Big Ben. That’s what the air reminds him of actually—flying. If he imagines hard enough, he can imagine himself flying in the cold air like a leaf, he can imagine what feeling the air carrying him would feel like. He can imagine how it would feel to grow wings and fly away from everything that annoys him, everything that makes him uncomfortable, everything bad and everything he wishes he didn’t have to deal with. He can imagine how it would be to be an albatross, up in the air for months or years just floating with the crisp wind, feeling your wings up against the ocean water as you make a massive move and fly further up. He can imagine floating up in the sky with Wilbur, everybody else be damned, flying to neverland with no time to think about anything but the lovely wind and each other—he’d visit his friends with Wilbur, visit everything they’ll never see and watch everyone wonder how they can float above them. He can imagine how amazing it would feel to be up there with just the wind and the two of them, just floating in the crispness. He can imagine how it would feel to get used to how crisp it is, how it would feel to get used to the cold air because it’s all they’d ever feel. Just floating. Doesn’t everyone want to fly at least once? It feels like he could genuinely do it, feels like he could genuinely kiss the sky and bid farewell to working when he doesn’t need a roof over his head—or fuck maybe his flying could be his job, he and Wilbur. He’d take good care of him, he would make Wilbur feel safe and get all the money a person needs in their life to feed him and care for him. Maybe Wilbur could fly with his guitar, maybe not, maybe they’d float down once in a while for him to play something and for him to listen to all the music ever. Maybe once in a while, they’d let the crisp air pass and they’d be random tourists in random countries with adoration and love for each other—maybe they’d take pictures everywhere they go, maybe they’d kiss in a few and maybe they’d stop dancing around living together and just do it.

He says they would stop dancing when even the crisp air is whispering to him, telling him that he knows he isn’t ready. Even if they take the train practically every week to each other’s houses, even if they are practically on each other every second and even if every time he sees Wilbur makes the air feel warm and good and like he could just fall asleep and curl up close to him. It’s him that isn’t taking that step yet, not Wilbur. Wilbur has been ready to welcome him for four months, Wilbur has been ready for what the crisp air makes him fantasise about. But he’s holding back his affections while looking at the other boy like he’s a Greek god, like he’s Aphrodite and George is just a man in Ancient Greece stumbling into her temple with the wind pushing him forwards. He may not worship but it’s the closest you get to thinking of something or someone as something better than human—Wilbur is closest to inhuman to him and his inability to say it, his mouth blocking it, makes him so angry.

His cheeks flush as Wilbur puts his coat over him, pulling it closer and putting it on so the crisp air only shows its coldness against his face. Now it’s just his fantasy of flying, no more cold distracting his thoughts. He liked the crisp but this is good too. In the least creepy way he can think of, the coat smells of Wilbur and makes him feel better than he ever has. Maybe that’s the true way to fly because being in Wilbur’s coat and watching him smile at him makes him feel so light.

He giggles, he feels that light and good that he just giggles. Wilbur doesn’t seem to mind the noise, maybe even enjoying it based on how his smile becomes the slightest bit wider and turns more lopsided, his hand ruffling his hair in his telltale way as George thinks of how to express himself at all. He isn’t a man for the ‘I love you’s like his friends and Wilbur. He loves hearing them, his cheeks flush and he feels so proud of himself, but he’s much more of a man to show affection in the simpler ways. He shows his affections in actions, in the way he’s grabbing his hand and blushing before kissing Wilbur’s cheek.

Another giggle at the way his face just becomes so relaxed, joyous, happy, he doesn’t know what word to use. He can really tell why Wilbur has simps, especially so damn many, he’s one of his biggest simps after all. Goddamn he’s glad everyone appreciates the man the way he does, almost as much as he does. He can’t help being a simp but dammit is it a respectable person to simp for.

“I love you,” Wilbur speaks with a smile, holding his hand tighter with fingers tangling together. It’s so nice how he doesn’t seem to expect it back but at the same time it makes him feel sort of pathetic.

“You ever wanted to fly?” George asks after a while of walking towards Wilbur’s, admittedly fucking horrifying and absolutely terrifying to the point he’s surprised at the ease he got used to it but then again he had Wilbur there and Wilbur could make looking at a torture room seem at least tolerable, house.

“I think everyone might. How come?” Wilbur asks, hand leaving his to take out the key from the coat’s pocket. George almost misses the warmth (he definitely does but wants to safe himself the embarrassment of admitting he’s that clingy), even the wind calling him out for being so attached but he can’t really help it.

“If I could float with the wind,” George starts confessing, Wilbur smiling and lifting his hand as if to feel the air for George to roll his eyes and continue, “I’d take you and never look back. You, me, wind.”

“Aren’t you being poetic?” Wilbur asks, clearly blushing nonetheless—he’s easy to make blush too actually, when it comes to his simping for his boyfriend at least. When it comes to his boyfriend, he can’t help but to blush the deepest red, especially when he’s being like this. If someone asks, he’ll blade the crisp air, he’ll blame his faster heartbeat on the way it doesn’t feel good to breathe in—not that George would believe him if he even tried with that bullshit, “I would love to fly away with you. Reminds me of albatrosses, this would be the perfect wind to float around with.”

It’s silent for a moment as they both enjoy themselves outside, Wilbur taking George by the hand again with the crisp wind continuing to blow and blow—crisp air making it hard to breathe even without the fact they’re too happy to fucking spare a thought to the idea of breathing. Breathing is a social construct, be a simp in crisp air, it’s way better than doing something normal and just breathing.

“You should move in,” Wilbur speaks with a smile as the key finally opens the door, “it’s crisp like this pretty often here. When we find out how to fly, this would be the best place to take off. Don’t you agree, Captain George?”

“Soon,” George responds, the wind telling him it’s the right choice. He’ll ride the crisp air soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day two: Music!
> 
> Yes I’m going Georgebur AGAIN, yes I’m aware this is a lot of georgebur straight out the gate. However, its music and I found a cute prompt on tumblr regarding georgebur and music so I am required. Also this *can* probably be read as platonic."
> 
> Should be pretty accurate since I’m a tall white gay boy with a guitar and a British accent. Let’s see how it goes.

He sits on the bed with eyes towards the other boy, the taller of the two wearing a smile, bright and loving as ever as he fingers play with the string package in his hands with the other boys fingers skilfully making sure his guitar has all strings again. The broken one is sat on the desk next to them, waiting for what is going to be done to it. What’s going to happen to it after they’ve replaced him with one more capable. George almost feels sympathy for the poor string, almost feels bad for an inanimate object that doesn’t feel anything being replaced. Really shouldn’t have watched toy story as a kid, he started feeling bad for everything in the moment the toys came to life. Maybe the string is recyclable on some level, maybe the string can be used in a different way or maybe he can fiddle around with it until it gets some shape of some kind of art piece, he doesn’t know. He just doesn’t want the strings life to be in vains, even if he enjoys holding the new strings and watching Wilbur work with the ones he took off of George’s lap, smiling as he takes yet another one to fiddle with, yet another one to use as a replacement. It’s nice and quiet until Wilbur speaks, even if that doesn’t really disturb George at all,

“You ever wanted to learn guitar?”

The question is so simple, so nice in tone and so honestly interested it gives him pause for a moment. He isn’t sure anyone has taken interest in what he likes to do in such a serious way, acting like what he likes is actually an important thing not just a polite question. It feels like the most important question in the world in the moment.

“Yeah, haven’t taken the time to learn,” he responds, smiling Wilbur sitting next to him and handing over the guitar in a quick moment, grabbing the guitar carefully. 

“How much do you know?” Wilbur asks after George has adjusted his hands better, gotten more used to the guitar in his lap.

“Like what they taught in secondary?” George questions, he did take music in secondary school so guitars aren’t a completely foreign thing to him, “they taught me to play right handed though.”

“So you know easier chords and how to pick strings?”  
“Pretty much, I can play ‘wake me up when September ends’ so I’m not useless.”  
“You’d not be useless even if I had to teach you how to hold a guitar, Gogy.”

He feels red colour spread to his cheeks, quickly grabbing the guitar pick Wilbur is handing him and putting his fingers over the strings while sort of trying to hide, although subtly, that he is turning red because someone said he isn’t useless. Wilbur almost complimented him and he’s blushing about it because he isn’t used to being complimented or told he hasn’t got to know things to not be useless—perhaps it’s something that just doesn’t get told, you can be complimented on skill or personality but rarely is it just that you’re good enough. It feels like music in a weird way, maybe it’s just the way Wilbur’s voice says it.

“This is wonderwall,” George exclaims, Wilbur struggling not to laugh when he slowly plays the chorus with absolute focus, his fingers slightly struggling with changing to an e minor from a D, Wilbur finally stopping him.

“It’s good, you clearly know the chords,” Wilbur speaks softly, bopping the other boy’s nose to a slight laugh, “Try practicing from D to E minor. I was expecting you to struggle D to C honestly, good job on that. Just lift two of your fingers up and take your middle finger off like so. And then you should be able to transfer it easier.”

“I practiced my ass off to get to C, pretty sure I could do it in my sleep,” George ‘brags’ with a look in his friends direction, changing the chords a few times before trying again.

“That’s better! Now what if we try something else?” Wilbur speaks excitedly after a while of fucking around with chords and a few practice songs, “anything you wish you could play?”

“How does your song go?” George asks, a slight blush on his face as he asks. Don’t tell anyone but he really genuinely likes Wilbur’s music, he’ll listen to it on occasions and think about his friend—it’s those somber moments where he feels alone that listening to his music can genuinely help more than it probably should. Hearing his voice is like music in itself when he’s sitting around wondering how to tell his friends he misses them. Especially Wilbur, Wilbur is the hardest because technically the two aren’t very close but George finds him so enjoyable to be around that sometimes he hopes they spoke more often (even if he is half of the fact they don’t) and spent more time together like this, spent more time sitting around in each other’s company when it’s like music to talk to him. He likes Wilbur as if they were close friends when in truth they are not as near to each other—Wilbur is easy to talk to, a melody he really likes listening to, a song he likes singing along to. He likes the vibe of the other boy like he likes the vibe of his favourite songs. He really likes the musician, he really likes his voice and the time spent together and dammit he’s allowed to think it’s a crime this isn’t a regular thing for the two of them.

Wilbur smiles, George smiling back before Wilbur asks him which song he is talking about. His voice is so nice, it’s not trying to achieve comedy, it’s just talking to him and letting him listen—his voice really matches him being a singer.

“My favourite is probably Internet ruined me so that one,” he confesses, Wilbur looking up to think about what the chords actually are while slightly turning his head side to side.

“Take an f minor,” Wilbur tells him after a moment of silence, the other boy hurriedly thinking of which one that is before just admitting defeat.

“Which one is that again?”  
“Lay your finger here,” Wilbur speaks with a point, George putting it down immediately, “and two others here and here—got it?”  
“I think so.”

He pulls the pick down, Wilbur quickly correcting the fact you don’t actually play the two uppest strings before he goes at it once again, this time getting a thumbs up from Wilbur.

“The next is an E, do you know how to play an E?”  
“Yeah yeah I do,” George exclaims, pressing his fingers right and playing the chord.  
“Hell yeah, you’re doing great, you’re going to be better than me soon. That’s not exactly an achievement but whatever. Then it goes into a D.”  
“I wish I could play better than you, you’re the musician,” George speaks, clearly looking to kiss a bit of ass, “And you’re fantastic at making it too! Your music is actually really good—I wish I could come up with that shit.”

If George can take note of how honoured Wilbur looks to be receiving the praise, slightly red and smiling, he doesn’t mention it at all but instead plays the chord, fading into an a once Wilbur states it’s the next chord.”

“So how I would do it is,” Wilbur speaks, taking the guitar and playing a tiny bit before starting to sing with George looking at his playing the whole time, through the first verse before he gives the guitar back, “you get me?”

“Not really, I’ll be honest with you. Can you sing it but like slower and like clap or something when I’m supposed—oh god that’s stupid I’m so sorry.”  
“No no, I get you. I can try to do it like a music teacher, the ‘F, my keyboard is like my e heart’ kind of thing?”  
“That... yeah that works. Sorry I bet this is really annoying for you, we can stop.”  
“George this is absolutely entertaining, probably most entertaining thing to have happened outside of stream for a while. I think I like teaching.”

George smiles, looking at the guitar and starting up playing with Wilbur humming to start it up. He sings, George attempts to play with him, it’s a good attempt at least. For a first time, if you looked at it like George hadn’t touched a guitar in his life, it’s absolutely fantastic and he’s a prodigy, and honestly Wilbur does look at it like that on some level—because this genuinely is extremely impressive in his opinion.

“You should come to my house more often, you know,” Wilbur speaks with a grin after their attempt at music. It isn’t a disaster but it just isn’t rhythmic, which is okay. He liked it well enough, he liked the way it felt—the way it feels to do something he likes to do with somebody else. He likes George’s company a lot, “We could—I could teach you more and we could stream and y’know do all those kinds of things since the office isn’t too far. I really liked spending time with you, like I liked on the ‘date’. I like spending time with you a lot and we aren’t close but I would like to.”

If he said his company was like music, it could come off as slightly askew. But Wilbur honestly thinks it’s the best way to describe the way the whole day has been, from the morning George came from London to the afternoon they’re spending together sitting on his bed right now. It’s all like music, fun and upbeat but not obscenely so. It’s maybe a bit the better parts of the eighteens, swingy and awesome. But it’s music. He likes music (naturally since he’s a musician) and naturally he likes this kind of music too.

“I think so too,” George speaks with a smile, guitar slightly to the side as he pulls his legs up and puts his head back against the wall to look up at the ceiling of the excessively creepy room and especially the paintings or pictures staring back at him from the ceiling, “But next time you teach me guitar can it not be with a creepy girl painting or picture looking down at me like it wants to possess me.”

“There’s two actually,” Wilbur is quick to correct, pointing towards both, “But yeah, the office can work, I might get kicked out if you scream there though so please keep your volume low.”

“My screaming is a piece of music how would they dare kick you out for art?” George asks with a laugh, looking over to Wilbur afterwards just to confirm he’s joking, “I won’t scream at all, I promise.”

“Then when are you free next? We can play and make more music together.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day three: Card games. 
> 
> Sleepy boys inc because no this is not just georgebur. Platonic obviously (not because polyamory is wrong it’s not but because tommy m’boy is underage and not exactly okay with shipping either way so just no.)
> 
> Also childhood stories are mine or my friends, the casual conversation about the memories while playing cards is pretty much exclusively based on things I did as a child unless they explicitly spoke about it.

It’s a lovely evening, Wilbur thinks at least. His guitar is in his hands, his eyes are towards his little brother as Tommy excitedly looks for the playing cards. Techno is still outside, clearing the fallen leaves from the ground with Phil in the kitchen making some tea—it’s nice, it’s good. Autumn has arrived in remarkable colours and he affectionately plays on his guitar, a symphony of welcome for the oranges and yellows, the slight reds running across the fallen leaves. It’s nice, he can’t wait for Tommy to find the cards, wondering if the tea bags will get removed or Tommy finds the cards first. He’s assuming Tommy, so he can go fetch Techno from the yard and complain to Wilbur about the fact his brother didn’t do shit to prepare other than play a song by the arctic monkeys again. Well technically it’s very slow and slightly off version of ‘why’d you only call me when you’re high’ by arctic monkeys so he isn’t wrong—but he isn’t right either since his assumption every time is he’s playing ‘do I wanna know’ since it’s the only song Tommy really knows and pays attention to—probably some anomoia or something, maybe the boy has undiagnosed Synesthesia for music and people, maybe an explicit connection to the song by the way Wilbur talks about it, has talked about it since almost from the time they adopted Tommy—not even close actually, song’s only been out almost eight years and Tommy’s been in the family for about thirteen, pretty much fourteen. It surprises Wilbur that it’s already been so long (eighteen years for Techno and sixteen—almost seventeen years for him). 

He gets woken up from his pondering when Techno comes in with a slam of the door. Wilbur is within an inch of cursing him out for it, asking if he has any idea how costly that door fucking is if it breaks and Wilbur has to replace it and goddamnit it’s literally a tall door for all of them to fit their bodies is so getting another one would be fucking hard and expensive!

“Leaves all neat?” Wilbur asks instead, Techno yawning at the door and nodding before sitting at the dinner table next to Wilbur himself as the taller boy puts the guitar away, their youngest brother sitting down as well with a deep voice exclamation of ‘BLADE’ coming out before he gets his ass down on the seat.

“Neater than anything else in my life,” Techno speaks, taking the cards and shuffling them before letting Wilbur poke a finger at it so he switches those parts, taking a sip of the cup of tea he has in his hand with a smack of his lips afterwards—because all American know is smack lips, V O T E and be murican, “Thanks Phil it was kind of cold.”

“I’m glad you like the tea,” Phil speaks, sitting down as Wilbur starts sharing the uno cards. Seven to each of them, one down on the table. A red seven.

“Tommy, youngest starts,” Techno speaks, getting back in his chair as Tommy puts down his card (a red three, absolutely unremarkable in every single way possible) before Techno gets his turn, playing his cards as well.

“We should play cards against humanity sometime,” Wilbur speaks after a moment of silent playing, drinking some of his lemon tea with a stretch afterwards, looking between everyone at the table before his eyes stop on the youngest, “I think Tommy’s old enough to keep up with us by now, he knows all the important references that could be involved.”

“I’m a big man!” Tommy exclaims, jumping in his seat slightly before taking the slightest sip of his tea known to man, a kitten lick in sip form, before leaving with it to the kitchen with an opened cabinet to find honey into it.

“Are we starting to have Tommy old enough for poker then?” Techno asks, putting down a card yet again.

“Techno! Nobody plays poker under my roof!” Phil scolds, looking towards the long haired man before putting his card down, “He’s never going to play something like that—he’s a child.”

“I’ll play poker if I want to,” Tommy speaks, drinking his honeyed tea before getting back, sitting in his seat, “Don’t you think so, Wilbur?”

“I’m with Phil,” Wilbur says, taking one more card into his hand before putting the second one, a blue eight, on the table, “You know I have issues with those—you shouldn’t play money games until you’re developed enough to know how to quit.”

“I know how to quit! I’m the best quitter!” Tommy exclaims, putting down the card with a loud smacking noise coming out of it, “I wanna play poker with big man Technoblade.”

“We could play for coffee beans,” Techno speaks with a shrug as he gets three cards and taps the table to say it’s Phil’s turn and he is getting skipped this round, “I really think Tommy may be a good bluff.”

“That’s a huge compliment, don’t explode his head,” Wilbur speaks, Phil laughing into his hand before putting down two sixes after saying uno.

“I’m just a good bluff! I’m great at bluffing! I’m bluffing right now!” Tommy speaks excitedly, already zoned out of the game with high energy while drinking more tea, needing Wilbur to announce he has played, “Can we play poker?”

“For matches or something? I’m in,” Wilbur says with a shrug, looking over to Phil, “it can’t be too bad. Tommy isn’t that small anymore, he knows not to go to a casino and lose all his money just because he played poker with family.”

“So he knows better than you did?” Phil asks, Tommy looking to Wilbur in confusion with Techno sounding almost amused, “I don’t think Tommy ever did learn of you going at 18 and losing a hundred dollars for Techno to drag you home drunk.”

“Wilbur did that? Big W?” Tommy questions, getting a nod from Phil with Wilbur barely containing his laugh from becoming explosive as Tommy’s eyes go wide as plates, Phil in absolute hysterics watching his middle son try not to lose his shit. Even Techno lets out an amused huff, a surprise from the monotonous man but a welcome one.

Tommy suddenly shoots up, almost knocking his tea down as he looks over to Phil, a card slowly going on the table by Wilbur after Phil takes a card and unoes again, “Does that mean I’m the best behaved child out of us, Phil? Am I the golden child?”

“God no,” Phil exclaims, Wilbur humming proudly because of course he’s the golden child—Techno stands no chance against him with the amount of reports and detentions since literally primary school, “Honestly none of you are golden children but I love you all and you’re my sons even if you aren’t perfect golden children.”

“But I’m the closest, right?” Tommy asks, insistent on getting the label while playing a card, “I mean Wilbur’s gotten drunk and Techno’s just—Technoblade is Technoblade. I’m your best behaved child!”

“You’re not,” Phil speaks, Techno quietly saying uno before slurping tea yet again and looking towards Phil as the oldest pulls himself two more cards with one put down, “Honestly you’re all different well behaved. Wilbur didn’t get in a lot of trouble, you were really into faking ill to play Minecraft but were good otherwise and Techno was really helpful, especially as a child.”

“I skipped to play snooker once,” Wilbur speaks, putting his card down, “I remember because Tommy’s class came to bowl and I had to hide so he didn’t snitch on me. Then bought you ice cream after to distract you from the fact I was there once you got out”

“Yeah I remember that,” Tommy says, putting his card down saying uno before returning to talking to Wilbur, “I saw you, planned to blackmail you about it but you bought me ice cream so you were too cool for me to do that.”

“I never learned about this? Techno, did you know?” Phil asks, looking over to his oldest son for him to finally turn his attention back to the game from counting how many times the ceiling light blinks per minute (23, if you were interested) before putting his last card down.

“He knew,” Wilbur speaks with a laugh, drinking the last of his tea from the cup, “He made sure I was around in class the next few days, breathing down my neck like I was some kind of criminal—offensive really.”

“I won,” Techno speaks after a moment of silence, showing his empty hands lacking any cards by lifting them up, “Do you want to play poker now? Or later?”

“I want some custard cream before we start,” Tommy exclaims, going over to his backpack and pulling out the packet to put it on the table, “Now we can!”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” Phil starts, Techno already coming back with the pack of cards (when did he even get up) and shuffling the cards in his hands.

“We can play for who does the dishes, first person out does the dishes, second one out can put the cards away and the third out plus the winner can just sit around? It doesn’t have to be all that serious, Phil, don’t worry,” Wilbur explains, digging matches out of his pocket for all three others to wonder why he has them in the first place, “ten matches per person. Can be a few games if they last, you don’t get extra matches unless you win.”

“Alright then,” Phil submits, getting his cards and the matches, “Tommy knows how to play right?”

“I’ve taught him Texas hold ‘em before,” Wilbur admits, “Just a few rounds, you think you know?”

“Yep!” Tommy exclaims, eating a biscuit and handing one to everyone else around the table, “I’m pretty sure I know.”

“Warning, Techno and I are good at this,” Wilbur speaks, looking at his cards before putting a match forward, everyone around putting forward that simple one before they get one on the open, “I’m better than him though.”

“You wish,” is Techno’s response, putting two more matches forward with Wilbur quick to follow the action, the other two slightly behind.

“I know,” Wilbur speaks with a smile, “Schlatt taught me some of the things I didn’t know before, that guy is a beast at bluffing and especially at reading people.”

“Too bad that does nothing. For I have the ultimate poker face, I’ve only been using it since my birth,” the pink haired man speaks, a monotonous theatrical style of voice coming out.

“We’ll see, maybe Tommy wins.”  
“I will!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day four: fireplace.
> 
> Fundywastaken. I intended to have it be platonic but comes off romantic at parts, so whatever you want.
> 
> I’m sleep deprived I think you can tell with EVERY line in this. I made so many spelling errors originally because I was falling asleep writing!

The rain had poured over them earlier enough to have the man with hybrid features from foxes shivering, the shower still running with the man with the white mask under the stream instead. He feels like he could just curl up and sleep like a genuine fox, feeling cold even after the hot shower and warm fireplace have given him heat. It’s infuriatingly cold even after everything he has tried, his hopes that he won’t get sick are getting crushed by the second as he shivers and shakes on the floor while leaning over to be closer to the fire (as close as he can get actually—next step is hopping into the flames themselves when he’s finally satisfied and warm). He likes watching the orange flames, almost falling asleep now that he’s comfortable and warm until he concludes that he has grown too hot and slides his ass over—he feels like the girl from the three bears story, not that he knows her English name something like gold locks or goldie locks or some shit—first too cold then too warm and then just perfect and soon Dream will come and play the bears for him (or make him tea—dream can be so caring or he can be the definition of feral and it scares him way more than it possibly should, the way he can even swap around or worst case scenario he can be both without any issue whatsoever, most of the time they however are separate entities brought in by separate things.)

When Dream enters, Fundy immediately has his eyes on the dark haired male. The flames are illuminating one side as a lighter colour with the fires orange tint making him look like a blonish dark ginger while the other side is a very dark blond (his truer hair colour) that looks like brown upon first glance and if you don’t look at it in person and run your fingers through it. It’s sort of flat, not extremely but it’s not as puffy and bouncy as Wilbur’s or Fundy’s but instead a wavy medium kind of flat hairstyle. It’s pretty, he thinks, even if the hair is not stereotypically puffy he likes it a whole lot more than he probably should—then again who is to say how much he’s allowed to like Dream’s hair, the other boy seems to like it when he gets attention from Fundy about it so who is he hurting thinking about how it’s such a foreign and new colour or how it looks like a haircut he wishes he could pull off or many other things he cannot even name, the hair is wet and even wavier than previous. It’s like aurora in Norway, waving and beautiful in an almost mesmeric way. He wants to stand up just to touch it and tell the other how much he likes it—but instead he pats the spot next to him as to make sure Dream knows he’s welcome right next to him watching the flames with him—swimming in the orange light that affectionately dances on every single wall and lights up the room playfully without the need for the ceiling light. It leaves a trail from itself, shows where the light can reach so obviously with how the orange slowly fades until the wall barely shows any lighting against it at all, until the wall side of the table is barely within vision in the darkness. He truly loves the light, in every sense of the word, he loves how it’s engulfed both Dream and himself when the boy with the greenest eyes sits next to him with long, somewhere between dark and light, eyelashes fluttering as he closes his eyes and leans back on his hands as if basking in the light and warmth. It’s no wonder Dream has a cat, he looks like one with a wonderland Cheshire Cat grin and his fingertips slightly knocking at the floor like the nails of a paw—the knuckles hitting first then the rest before he brings them up and does it again, and again, it’s a melody and a pattern. It brings strange comfort for Fundy to count to two in his head in between the first time one of the fingers hit and the next round where the same finger hits the floor again. Fundy is within an inch of petting the other man, his catlike pose absolutely completed by the long stretch and open mouthed yawn in a way that feels identical to his own cat. 

He’s glad Dream isn’t taking a chance to talk his ear off, he likes it quiet enough to hear the fireplace in all of its glory—the sound of it’s burning almost like small snaps or similar taps to what Dream was doing just a second earlier. Beyond anything, the fire is crackling, making sounds like fireworks on the Fourth of July but so effortlessly quiet and almost beautiful. He has always enjoyed fires, cold tones make him anxious sometimes an fire is just warmth washing over him in colour and in heat—he enjoys the way it has him feeling to be here, the way he has finally warmed and is instead focusing on the noises with an almost tired feeling in his chest slowly riding up towards his eyes. Going from so cold with all day running around gathering wood and materials with Dream to the warmth of a fireplace with that same guy he was collecting with breathing slowly next to him? It just has made him calmer so quickly he also feels slightly tired from it. Sleep feels like it would absolutely make him so happy right now, especially since the day has yet to end for nightfall to begin (though this is cutting it close to calling it evening instead of night—it’s simply late enough to be in this middle ground he can’t name anything else but dark and calming) and he’s still got Dream to spend time with.

He enjoys Dreams company, the way the dark blond has his head on Fundy’s shoulder by now and is slowly starting to have his breathing become steady is telling Fundy that he is relaxed and well even without asking Dream himself how he is feeling. He knows Dream enjoys his company back, he’s been showing it all day today with the affectionate and amused way he’s been looking at him, talking to him, it shows Fundy so much more than words ever could that Dream is burying his face in the tiny bit of fur on him, as if to use him as a pillow, still completely quiet to an uncharacteristic amount. This is so soft from him, it rarely comes out that he even has this side to his personality and Fundy is so glad to be around enough to witness Dream falling asleep on his shoulder slowly while trying to stay awake to keep him company, Fundy’s hand paw happily patting at his head with affection. They’re really good friends, Fundy likes to this, Fundy asks him out to go eat with him and he agrees within a heartbeat (after some convincing the first time—mostly about the fact Dream felt weird having someone be proactive and planning things other than him or Wilbur—but now it’s a common occurrence for them to hop on a horse together and just enjoy each other’s company. It’s regular, it’s nice, it’s calming to be with each other every time they get the chance to be) and they do many other things as well—it’s an adventure almost every time they meet up, every time it’s one neither of them can wait to explore, it’s almost always a good time in their eyes and when it’s not they will make up for up a hundred times over, because that’s what friends do with each other.

Fundy continues eyeing the fire with Dream seemingly giving into the tiredness that has him leaning on Fundy with a small huff, snuggling in closer unapologetically and closing his eyes only to open them after a moment, every time his eyes closing for a significantly longer time with Fundy keeping him close until his consciousness starts to falter with the heat of the fireplace making him so hot he just can’t help wanting to fall asleep. He’s so close to it, the fires warmth continuing to fuel his body with it slowly spreading everywhere to make sure every inch of him is as warm as his face is from the hot fire. It feels fantastic to have the heat run even though he knows for fact it’s a warning that he’s even closer to falling asleep on one of his best friends, Fundy seeming to not mind when his green eyes take one last look to make sure it’s okay to just go to sleep (not that he could’ve stopped himself from going into dreamland even if Fundy did seem he didn’t want him to—his everything so heavy and warm already to the point his thoughts are slowly slowing down to make space for his dreams) before he closes them again and waits for sleep to take him into it’s warm comfortable arms, for sleep to take him away like he’s the princess and sleep’s the prince saving him from his tower—probably not the best metaphor when he really truly thinks about it. 

God, why is fur so comfortable to lay your head on? This is why he cuddles with his cat, the fur is so soft and feels so good tickling his cheek as he slightly turns his arms to be in a more comfortable position, finally going on to wait for sleep yet again with Fundy’s breathing slowly taking his head up and down—making it feel like just his head is being rocked in a crib. It’s so nice, he can’t comprehend how sleeping against someone else’s shoulder with a fireplace crackling in the background can possibly seem like such a good thing to do. So he does it, he lets his thoughts take him into a comfortable sleep (until Fundy needs to wake him up so they can go to bed—until then he will be out like a light against his good friends shoulder)

Fundy continues to stare at the fireplace until Dream has a completely steady breathing pattern, slow and almost soundless. It’s nearly impossible to feel his friend is actually breathing but he knows that Dream is letting out small breaths with every breath out. He likes the weight, it feels good to have someone lean against him and he neglects to watch the flames for only a second before he starts watching them slowly die down in front of him, going to sleep just like his friend. They’ve served their purpose and will go hope to their wives and children and families—go home to rest after their long labour. They’ve earned it, all the sleep possible, in Fundy’s eyes. As has Dream, Fundy’s face growing a smile as the other boy makes a small huffing noise in his sleep. They’ll have the more the bed soon but until then he will just watch the fireplace slowly sleep as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day five is train.
> 
> Hello this is my fourth time writing this tommy and tubbo, sleepy boy’s inc family plus dream team with Tubbo as a family too enjoy—not as well done as the three previous sorry.

Tubbo, after waking up, looks at the beautiful dawn outside. It’s definitely amazing, pink going into the normal blue of the sky. It’s in that lovely middle of almost purple, almost gorgeous enough to make his heart jump happily—George wouldn’t know that. George doesn’t know what that colour is, he doesn’t know what the purple is, he doesn’t know what that looks like, he almost misses them. Actually he does, he truly misses George and the rest of the Dream team, but they’re better off doing this. Sapnap burned something truly important to him, Tubbo was so close to crying as Dream screamed at Sapnap with George sitting in the background, watching the flames go up and down and up to the sky yet again, less emotional and easy to read than Tubbo. It’s why he agreed to leave with Tommy, their life was never good enough to not want to leave for the train (well it was but sometimes this is less of a good option to leave a letter with the stop they’ll leave the train at to see if anyone comes to look for them) and go but nonetheless it’s gotten worse slowly and that moment, watching the Americans argue and at each other’s throats like no tomorrow about the fire with absolute genuine anger—there was no honest regard for the fact it was his things burning but a regard for the fact the flames could be poisonous and the whole time he stayed there was nothing about the fact 80% of his things have turned into ash. Dream barely said he was sorry, Sapnap avoided his eyes, George said nothing at all and acted like everything was okay. So he packed what he had, knocked on Tommy’s window and they escaped together to the train station and onwards towards the last stop they’ll stop at to see if they have anyone come for them after all the shit the others have put them through—Tommy is much less positive than Tubbo, he at least tries to look at the candlelight and hope they will come for them and something will change with the statement they are making by escaping, he at least has hope that Wilbur won’t be a fucking terrorist if he realises he has driven his brother away and maybe his family (in the form of the dream team— they aren’t even actually adopted brothers but they were supposed to be together like four brothers and they were supposed to love each other like all brothers should. It was never supposed to be this, it was never supposed to go so far it went into Tubbo and Tommy escaping with little hope).

But nonetheless this is where it leads them, Tubbo sitting on a train seat watching Tommy wake up (because somehow he could sleep even after the light started to shine outside the window and the clanking against the rails—he has barely slept all night even if he’s used to everything being noisy and horrible) and watching the younger boy realise that his brothers are far behind him. He’s watching in real time as Tommy’s face rushes through emotions—guilt, regret, something numb that he can’t even name and absolute seething rage that makes Tubbo flinch back with the power it holds. It looks like he is going to fucking attack him, Tubbo preparing for the worst before he sees Tommy dig his fingers into his own scalp and pull at his own hair with despair. He’s regretting this, more than Tubbo is, he’s regretting having gone and done what he did—he’s regretting fleeing, he’s regretting the candlelit letter he wrote his brothers. He’s regretting all of it so obviously and Tubbo wants to talk to him, ask what he can do to make tommy feel better since there’s no way to turn the train around and Zeppelins are so much more expensive than the trains—he wants to explain that the decision is made even though he knows tommy will scream about it with anger and deny all of it. Tommy will deny that this is a forever choice, he’ll scream at him and he’ll be emotionally unavailable for a while before he’ll reluctantly apologise and Tubbo will forgive because tommy is the dearest thing to him (other than his bees—actually more than his bees. If tommy killed his bees, he’d be mad and want to scream sure but if his bees killed tommy he would kill them back and look at any way to perceive Tommy—he’d probably risk his life for Tommy for fucks sake tommy clearly is the dearest thing to him) and in being the dearest thing Tubbo really doesn’t want to lose Tommy. It terrifies him to even think he will so if Tommy screams too much he will be away until he calms down and accept the apology because Tommy’s never intentionally hurt him. His wannabe brothers do nothing but hurt him so clearly his loyalties lie where Tommy puts his loyalty, sometimes it was be with Tommy’s brothers and when Tommy is mad at them then Tubbo is kind of mad too. If Tommy thinks Wilbur is this close to lighting a village on fire, Tubbo thinks so too and makes the plan for what to do in case that fire gets lit. They’re brothers in the way the dream team was supposed to be for him—they’re brothers in every sense but legal and biological and that’s okay because those are bullshit.

Tommy’s calming down, Tubbo notes, looking at the ceiling after he thinks he may have been looking too long for Tommy to look out the window as well. The silence isn’t long but it does feel cruel to wait until Tommy finally speaks up, way too emotional in a way that doesn’t feel like Tommy at all even Tubbo knows his friend is hyper and thus he is extremely and highly emotional—the sadness and defeat in Tommy’s voice when he asks Tubbo if he thinks anyone will come for them after all is weirdly heartbreaking for Tubbo too—the older of the two answering with complete honesty, a slow sentence that he never wanted to utter in his life when Tommy is upset but he knows is the best one he has right now—if he faked being sure about it he would just make Tommy feel worse and he doesn’t want that, if he suspects the answer is no but he wants to remain positive enough to be neutral—being neutral just is his best option, though it feels horrible to tell Tommy ‘I don’t know’ when Tommy is normally their leader answering his questions and most heartbreakingly Tommy is so sure, Tommy is so convinced about things and has such strong opinions he could never copy. He could never be quite as sure, he’s sure about many things but when Tommy can for sure tell him that he WILL get money from a thing he tries to sell or he WILL get his brothers to respect him, it’s so much easier to fall in line with him and believe he has possibility of success even when you know it won’t work. And he feels like by saying ‘I don’t know’ he is letting tommy down from his security, his positive absolution that has saved him from feeling hopeless many times during their years. He feels bad he doesn’t have the ability to offer Tommy that same security but he isn’t sure how to voice that either—his brain is too much faster than his mouth, Tommy is the opposite and it works for him when Tubbo starts overthinking like this so damn easy while getting stuck on how to voice himself and his opinions.

“I hope so though,” Tubbo says, looking outside nervously wondering if it will be enough to express his hopes—his wishes, “I wished for it actually. When the flame went out. You were sleeping but a friend said if you wish when the candle burns out your wish will come true. So hopefully it ends up working out.”

“Do you believe it?” Tommy questions, watching Tubbo with something like admiration or appreciation with an edge of disbelieve, “Like that it will come true. Is that something you think will happen, Tubbo?”

“Yeah,” Tubbo speaks after a moment, looking tommy in the eye this time while thinking of words to speak with—words for whatbhe wants to say, “I want to believe in it! I want to believe that whatever I wish for comes true because it brings comfort to wish your problems away, to wish that something will happen and have it feel like you can make a change in things you necessarily can’t do anything about. So I want to believe, I truly do, so maybe I’m forcing myself to think I believe it.”

Tommy sits there, silent and stunned, for a moment before he laughs and calls Tubbo stupid—the older of the two just laughing, glad that his friend feels better since they have a long journey still left and a long journey waiting at the stop until someone hopefully comes looking for them.

He hopes Tommy gets a happy ending more than anything.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day six is stargazing and y’all-you don’t understand unless you know I almost majored astrology—stars are near to my heart and im going to f l e x.
> 
> Platonic Dreamnoblade! Because it’s my favourite thing to write. Also college AU

Dream is happy to be able to spend the night with the other boy—they don’t often talk after school and work (or even there) but now they’re on the bench watching the stars with an A3 map of stars to name the sky onto for class and he hopes he can ask Techno to get some McDonalds on him after this is done, he’ll pay for the McDonalds and get to know the boy in all his classes that seems to miraculously get similar grades as him—both of them are tryhards and get the best grades of their classes, he wanted to get to know the guy who’s keeping him from being the best student in their college class. The guy seems cool, bit monotonous and quiet in a way that really gives contrast to how energetic and jumpy he is—his voice is also deeper than Dreams, as if to match his calmer personality with a mature voice where his can go up like a little boy, his is meant for cheering and screeching and screaming things before he falls. But hey, he may be the magnet but it doesn’t work without metal and he thinks they’re getting along pretty well just watching the stars in the silence they’re sitting in (were—were sitting. Dream couldn’t stand it so he’s currently standing on the armrest with his arms spread out to balance him better.)

“Can you not sit a second?” Techno asks after dream has taken to jumping off the bench onto the rocks underneath the bench then jumping back up and continuing as the stars start to show again from behind a cloud. He doesn’t expect Dream to sit still, he can’t do that either, he fidgets a shit ton in his seat and his attention goes fucking everywhere but being so high energy as to jump around while doing a school project isn’t something he actually has issues with—maybe because he doesn’t particularly like sports in general, none of his family really does other than maybe Wilbur slightly (enough to watch if England is playing in the semi finals and/or finals in a certain year depending on how busy he is.)

“I’m just excited,” Dream responds, looking up at the sky again with his phone now in hand with names and pictures to match to the sky, his eyes on the near middle of the sky as techno simply takes out a pencil again to hear what Dream is spotting, the book of what different constellations look like left open next to him on the page about Canes Venatici, his personal least favourite constellation. I mean c’mon it’s pretty much a line drawn between two stars, just a single line, spotting it every spring has been one of his least favourite things about every spring so far. Why does it even exist? Pluto can get dropped (his personal favourite planet, apparently Dream prefers Venus based on him saying he saw it during sundown with such excitement. Techno just prefers Pluto, he can’t help it) but his least favourite constellation still exists for some stupid fucking reason. What culture is that attached to a straight goddamn line? Which culture says that Canes fucking Venatici needs to be kept—who does Canes Venatici fucking please? Who likes it? He doesn’t—he can’t comprehend how someone’s not suggested unmaking that constellation and maybe making it more interesting. Somehow.

“Sculptor,” Dream expresses, pointing up towards the sky with Techno’s eyes following his finger to up there, “It’s the one slightly below mid sky, the vaguely hammer looking one in the book. It’s below Cetus for map purposes.”

“I see it,” Techno responds shortly, writing ‘sculptor’ on a vaguely hammer looking constellation as Dream goes back to searching the sky. This is fairly enjoyable, he assumes their professor didn’t literally mean go stargazing but instead meant for them to look this up on google but this is a good time in his opinion. He enjoys spending time with Dream a surprising amount, especially outside so late, and maybe they’ll get extra if they prove they really went out like four hours ago to stargaze for the assignment instead of copying google or some shit—maybe that will give them extra or something for the assignment. He can only hope. But even if it doesn’t, there is no fucking doubt that him and Dream are getting an A*, a hundred percent on this assignment, it’s simply the power of having the class nerds work together and make shit happen. It’s simply the fact the two of them actually take things seriously that will give this to them every single time, any assignment like this. Hell, maybe the two of them can work together more after this and make something like friends or Male sure they can destroy all the competition and absolutely smash it.

“Grus below Sculptor, next to Phoenix,” Dream points out next after spending a moment just looking at the stars with techno thinking and drumming with the pencil up against his leg, the pink haired male saying a simple ‘roger that’ and writing down Grus on the constellation he must be talking about. He knows Grus actually, it’s one of his favourite constellations along with the already mentioned Pegasus. The sky has many pretty stars this time of year, he concludes, but his favourite one is actually almost half a year away. It’s a shame, really, he would like it if every single one of his favourites was on the sky at the same time just blinking away at everything underneath. But nevertheless they are nearly a 180 degree turn from each other at least for now until maybe his unwavering love and hatred for certain stars dies down. He can only hope it will, it gets in the way a surprising amount.

“Techno, wanna get McDonalds after this? The one two blocks away is open right now,” Dream speaks after another long silence. It’s not really uncomfortable silences, it’s long ones of focus. They probably both know focusing takes a lot of work and when you can do something interrupting with something else is impossible until your focusing spurt has finished. It’s an unspoken understanding that they both have issues with such a thing and it’s unspoken that they’ll let each other focus or not focus unless it’s a disturbance. Even in the classroom, before they really knew each other, they thought of it the same.

“Seems good,” Techno responds simply, trying to spot a few stars as well with his knowledge of just names and not so much shapes—it doesn’t help much but he tries, especially when there’s just two left they haven’t filled into the paper and that means there’s only two constellations for them to really stop (well there is more on the sky but—the clearest ones are on the papers so they’re just spotting clearest.

“Do we have Cephus yet? Because it’s up there,” Dream speaks again, pointing. Techno just concludes it as the uppest one from their perspective, not really having to look. Now it’s just one missing, whatever one of the fairylight like stars it may be.

They’re like dancing fairies from tales, so beautiful and hypnotic to just stare at and reach for. The little prince really had it right, travelling from star to star in search of a rose, it’s a gorgeous backdrop in all considerable ways. It’s no surprise someone who draws your attention is also the star, they’re so bright and if he could assign personalities to stars they would be so bubbly and nice and sweet—they’d want nothing but the best for everyone around them. From the ones in Capricorn to Sirius to all of them Ares—they’re all just gorgeous, fantastical things that just mesmerise them both for a moment with their sweet ballet across the almost black dance floor. It’s not black, it’s blue, but it’s the closest it will come to black because the dancers literally light the sky in their way across. Technically it’s earth turning, the dancers standing still, but when you look at it that way it’s much more depressing than seeing stars as dancers jumping across trying to let everyone in the world enjoy at least one second of their performance until it stops—and even after. It takes so long to know of a stars passing, any they could be enamoured by could be nothing but former glory to a now dark spot. It could be nothing but a haunting of the dancer, a recording of the beautiful spinning and jumps they somehow master without fail until they stop performing. It’s simultaneously so comforting, to know what you watch won’t be gone in one simple useless moment with nothing but a memory of it happening, and so unsettling to know that the thing that could have you mesmerised and ready to dance with the stars could all be fake and the thing that made you so happy could’ve exhausted itself before you even were born. Both of them are valid opinions but maybe instead of thinking enjoying it until it’s gone is more important, enjoying a bright star instead of obsessing over if you’re dancing with a lamp long broken. And maybe, just maybe, even Canes Venatici is a constellation with two (or three he doesn’t remember) stars worth seeing and appreciating for everything, for attempting to dance like all the others and getting judged day in day out instead (at least by him because I mean fucking LOOK at it)... nah, he’ll continue to judge it, stars are very pretty though. And he’s glad he’s gone stargazing or star spotting or whatever this may be with Dream.

“Found the last one,” Dream announces, pointing up after he has shaken the absolute awe he was in for just a moment before now, “Triangulum? I think you only have one free spot so you should know where it goes.” 

“Yeah,” Techno responds after a few seconds, writing it down on the paper as well with both of them in almost complete silence other than the pencil until that stops as well and Dream practically jumps up, grabbing Techno by the hand as the other boy puts the project in his bag.

“I owe you McDonalds, c’mon,” Dream explains, still full of energy in a way that isn’t maybe hopping around but nonetheless reminds Techno of Tommy in the best way imaginable, “Stargazing has been a lot of fun but I’m so fucking hungry you don’t understand I haven’t eaten after like dinner!”

“It’s been interesting stargazing with you,” Techno expresses, “But yeah, McDonalds.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day seven: Free space (I put ‘missed opportunity’ as mine. So yeah)
> 
> It’s sorta angsty, previous Dreamnotfound and implied something else not clear who. Also first person!!! Very rare for me!!!

From the dimmed lights, I can see a figure holding onto an another. What attracted my attention to this particular man? Probably the way I knew him once, how I watched him laugh under my arm and giggle about jokes I made, the way a lifetime ago he was mine, the way his eyes were caught up on me the way they’re on the one holding him now. The way his body used to be perfectly in rhythm with me. Now, when the rhythm starts, his eyes start getting hazy but focused the moment he recognises the song, his eyes lit like candles making the whole room so bright and beautiful with zero effort just by being happy to be here, happy to be here to get to dance. The other figure mutters something about wanting to just hurry along as his long legs make their first steps away from the most beautiful treasure I ever could’ve lost, the most gorgeous man on the dance floor tonight. It angers me so much I wish I could grab what used to be mine by the hand, the way the other man with the long legs is acting as if dancing with him is a chore when him looking to happy to do it is enough to make me want to jump on the floor and take his beautiful fragile hands and let him lead me to wherever he wants me like I were a piece of Clay (pun absolutely intended). It’s angering, I wish I could be him again, I wish I could see his face light up that beautiful way and watch how he loves to dance and how he loves to have everyone adoringly watch him—he’s practically sought after, he’s so known and pretty he’s practically a treasure and I was a dumb pirate unable to read the map. It lead me to him, he was ready to be mine but I went wishing for more and—

God, explaining the scene couldn’t be harder. I may be a writer but watching him leaves me incapable, leaves me unable, leaves all my words unused in favour of thoughtless staring at him with nothing but regret—not a thought of mine says I had done the right thing for a moment in leaving him. His moves are as if he was meant to dance, he’s moving like the most experienced dancer to have ever graced my eyes, blessed me with the ability to watch for a second, he’s leaning as if he were a flag in the wind and hands moving like casting some charm on everybody around, making sure everyone is watching him even though he doesn’t need for a moment because he has to breathe to make men and women fall on their goddamn knees—and I was the stupid guy who left that, the guy who stupidly didn’t take the dancer by the hand and take his charms, take my chances with the guy that’s so hypnotic and quick paced in every move, as if he knew exactly what to do and when utterly amazingly, as if this was his mother tongue instead of whatever the fuck is actually is (English) and god fucking dammit why is he so fantastic at this? Why does he look so beautiful right now, under the light shining to the stage like that ceiling lamp knew he’s the star of the show and everyone else is just an extra. He’s dancing as if he had done it time and time again, like it was what he was born to do with his gorgeous eyes moving with him and his lashes all spread out—I don’t know why I expected so much of him, too much for even someone who looks like a god, he can’t be perfect and hoping he doesn’t have flaws was so stupid—being mad about his mistakes when they never affected me, I shouldn’t have done that. It’s like I’m watching what I could’ve had, his face morphs with his body, focused yet happy in a moment and next angry and determined with the actors expressions in his dark eyes, his dark eyes making sure nobody else can get attention when the light bounces off them making them almost shine, it looks like he was crying and every inch of me wants to jump on that stage and hold him until he’s okay, hold onto him with hugs and kisses and roses and fuck whatever he needs to be happy—anything to make this perfection happy. I know that it all comes from the fact he’s an actor and even his eyes are making themselves part of the performance as his moves continue getting quicker and slower when the song demands, whatever he wants to do. It’s his song now, nobody matters, I can’t even tell what song it is when my eyes are nailed and fixated on something like this instead of whatever it would take to find out the song that has made him so eye catching yet again. He’s so damn close, so damn amazing and such a reminder of what I fucking lost with small moves as well as swaying hips then running away in quick pirouettes with no care for the utter hurricane he’s being, the destruction his moves brings to everyone’s heart, the way his spinning is both controlled and so far from being in his control—damn if the song could never end, I want to live in this moment or dance with him, make him crack a smile out of character putting my hands on him and end with him in my arms. 

He’s completely and utterly breathtaking; every part of his body like an intoxicating thing to behold, like alcohol and it’s that moment between too much and not enough where ‘maybe I can have one more before I throw up’ is an actual sentence you use to describe it, I could puke a hundred times if I could just bask in him more even for tonight. It’s such a fuckup to let him go when he didn’t want to leave, such a fuckup to leave him when he was mine and he was smiling and giggling and gripping my arm and fuck he was like this for me not this prick with his long legs getting closer to someone that should’ve been mine, someone who should wake up in my bed and kiss me good morning and someone I should make breakfast for and someone who should marry me—just marry me. If it was okay, i’d get on my knees and beg we were together still, beg for him to be what I wake up to. He’s like a drug making it way too hard to think straight at all on any level, it’s like he’s made me unable to use the intelligence I have been sung praises for. I’m supposed to be a genius, the man behind the future, but letting him go makes me the biggest idiot. All that matters is that he’s lighting, he’s nature at the best nature gets with the running waterfalls and fields opening to hundreds of flowers that would look so good on his head, he’s gold straight from the vein that makes you giddy and excited because fuck you’re going to be rich. He’s just fuckingmagnetic, almost magical. He is a fantasy, one of the books about magical worlds he used to read leaning against my bed, his lips curled up to the most genuine smile with the uninterrupted reading he could do next to me while I played something stupid on my phone—should’ve looked at him instead, should’ve known it would end at some point. Should’ve known I’d be here, close to crying because of how he looks feverishly gorgeous with every move he makes, his cheeks pinker and pinker with more movement. It’s like he’s flying, floating in the air, as if he has invisible wings to keep his from falling down or he just knew how to float by himself. He’s like a butterfly from far away, colourful and gorgeous in ways that are even—there—words fail me when he’s there, he’s spinning to be right in front of me and looking me in the eye for the slightest moment. And Lord, how his eyes shine the love for what he’s doing. They’re diamonds, they’re expensive but ones I would go into debt for a hundred times over. They’re artpieces, gorgeous things I want tattoed into my mind until they’re the only things I know. They’re masterpieces, definitely on display like they should be but god it should be a display in a more popular place with more admirers. Or at least in a place where that art is worshipped (May I suggest my bedroom?)

His shoulders pump up and down after the song clearly quiets down, clearly he is running out of breath even though he is continuinghis eloquent escape from his dance partner. That is until he finds his chance, spinning into his partners arms, getting held delicately but not as delicate as I would hold him if I got the chance, he’d be held like a piece of art if I wasn’t an idiot. His face is looking upwards and his mouth gets a grin that’s the kind of playful everyone knows for a romantic look at someone, knows it’s the playful you only give a partner you hold dear. He used to reserve that look for me, he used to only look at me like that at all. He used to hide his face in my neck and giggle with that smile, talk about doing things I wish we could still do. He never said he loved me, I was always so pissed he wouldn’t find those words leaving his lips with all the stupid pestering I have him. I feel horrible now, doing that pestering was horrible of me, he wasn’t ready to say that and I should’ve respected it and I would still have him. I could still hold this siren in my arms, I could still kiss his forehead in parties with our friends and I could still tell him that I think he’s an idiot (with affection—he knew I meant it with the highest affection that word could ever have).

But now he’s giggling with him, mouthing words about how they should take it elsewhere. My heart breaks watching the man stay stoic, he deserves someone more emotionally available than someone to just take his hand while he giggles and he tries to make small talk—how did this guy even get to such an angel? He isn’t emotionally available, I know, but he’s so much happier and kinder in every possible way and the way the man remains stoic as if being with the most beautiful man to ever be born is almost depressing. How can those browns eyes, the little chocolate buttons shining with the light, look at a stoic man and think that he’s anywhere good enough? Then again, I’m definitely demonising him for having the most beautiful dancer I have ever seen, for holding the gift from god an atheist like me can call otherworldly, for leading away the one person I wish I could hold again, for having the affections of someone I practically need to be a whole person again, for getting to dance with the man I want to dance with again more than anything.

But hey, maybe I should just go home, he’ll never be mine again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 8: letters (I took it as angsty letters so like angst and mentions of depression and shit also took it a bit elsewhere so I’m exposing old writings of mine in the forms of letters so if you think I’m a good writer c’mere and learn where I started)
> 
> No specified person really. Heavily implied to be me projecting onto Techno or Dream since they’re writers. AKA sorta written for me to jack off to how much better I am even tho I’m shit.

_Foreboding—everything about the stomach and eye pain speaks to me. I never wish to feel ennui, I could never feel like that, but everything is painful and bad in ways I can’t explain. It’s aquiver, I’m aquiver with pain and hurt. My voice has left me and all I wish is someone ran through my hair and told me I was okay but nobody has since I was a mere three years old. It’s a glib love nowadays, not pure enough to truly care. Choking me while teaching me to breathe. I don’t take umbrage to the fact they don’t feel it necessary to care for a teen boy—I take no offence in how often I’m abandoned. It’s okay to be non-sequitur with me, I don’t mind until it hurts too much not to be bothered. I wish I could just vamoose, a funny word I know; I guess I’m trying to make this ever the cacophony of emotions of different kinds for who sees it. It’s found ubiquitously, my ability to make my emotions a mere joke until it hurts too bad. It’s not nefariousness to not want to tell everyone you’re not okay when they’re not either—you carry everyone until the finish line and collapse just before it, that’s the only way to live. I’m capricious, sometimes I’m so okay pushing all emotions away and sometimes I’m standing at the edge of this pool looking down at the black bottom and willing myself drowning. It’s boondoggle for me to even write this, it’s like a diary I publish for no reason. I’m sycophantic, telling everyone with deniability over and over and I want to scream so loud no sound exists anymore._

_The music is so mellifluous, I don’t know if it’s good. I feel horrible and worse with every song but I don’t have the strength to stop them coming in. Brogue, I would say the songs I listen to are brogue. But now they’re just pathetic trembling enemies killing you with them and I just hit myself so hard I started crying because I think I may be dying._

_Aren’t I perfunctory? Everything about me is mixed and I can barely write—can’t see. Fuck._

His eyes scan the old letter to nobody he wrote for a stupid reason he can’t even name, wanting to scream at past him for writing such a stupidly complicated letter. He wanted to seem cool, he assumes, he wanted to seem like he knew all these words presenting his depression but he doesn’t and reading them over he feels like a fraud. He feels like he feigned intelligence in a way he didn’t know he had ability writing it, writing as if this were his daily vocabulary. It feels so fraudulent and even now, with better mental health, reading those letters feels like he’s intruded into something and feels bad feelings crawl against his skin. It feels horrible to read though the horrible letter, full of blame to everyone but himself. Because of course he cannot be the issue, he has never been the issue unless he hated himself in the moment he admired that he was at fault. He was just a writer, an angsty writer. He grabs the other sheet of paper, looking at how his name is written in cursive on the top corner of the page pretentiously as he starts reading through it, out loud to maybe help himself feel better about it, realising it was a letter to himself talking about his hard time with socialising half way through overlooking it and chuckling before he speaks louder and more confidently, starting to read, “She reaches for us, rocking with her hundreds of hands from the deep. Her hundreds of pushes, thousands of little movement, her beautiful children laying below us as she rocks and rocks up against us—we knew she were not our lover, we knew she switched loyalties with the wind, nor can we blame her for helping us a minute then rocking us to sickness with the hundreds of hands, the mouth nearing us with deadly accuracy. Her calm is only a reminder of her emotion, how she’ll switch with a different altitude, how she’ll change everything for smallest reasons. How her hands can be so hot yet minutes, hours, days, of moving up her warm arms makes them cold, makes us face the freezing of ice travelling across her. The freezing of her, she is snow after all. She is coldest of them all after all, she could boil and burn or freeze us alive. Slowly we feel more glad for the lack of sirens, how her hunger has to be sought with hands and pushes of us, pathetic against her mass, against her beauty. Pathetic against our love since we were young, pathetic against the ocean. We shared a love for her, we shared an adoration for going around the world, we shared a need to fondle her in our hands and travelling against her, travelling knowing many like us in her stomach wanted to do the same but blind with arrogance of our power, our ability to ride her anger, to know where the wind would blow. Our worship was more of arrogance for too long, she knows we’re impure, she knows we came to her to prove our ego and now she will swallow us for our arrogance, feed her children with our stupidity, love deserving with the knowledge they won’t go through this with respect for her, respect for how great she is, how she’s fantastic. But how she will hurt who escapes at midnight to a storm to show that they’re more intelligent than her grace. Because that’s simply a lie, she is powerful like none of us.” It’s hilarious, he can’t help his chuckles. Objectively it’s pretty good but knowing he isn’t a fan of writing angst anymore makes him feel something different towards all the angsty feelings he had in letters to himself or others, wondering if he can find one more before spotting one—bingo. The one he wrote to his therapist about his nightmare—perfect.

_The sound of plugging strings of an ukulele is just so extremely close to making me feel something extreme, something sickening._

_Every plug as the masked man plays a simple song is so off beat, so horrible, painful._

_How I can’t stop dancing, twirling around to a music that has no rhythm, I don’t have a word for how badly I want to puke the flowers coming up my throat._

_My hand grabs the dark shadows shoulder, a deep chuckle leaving the man’s lips, maddeningly chilling as I hear the lights singing along to the ukulele, the light above us particularly eager to hum and point at me, mock me for my predicament._

_The shadow gifts me a spoon, no warning after i grab it before he takes it out of my hands, speaking lowly to me with a low ‘open’ still much more threatening than him normally._

_He spoons at my throat, taking out fertiliser before putting in more of his flowers, green stems pricking my throat as he speaks again, ‘swallow’._

_I know not to chew, it’s so painful but I know it would be worse to have him force them down. Sickening._

_He grabs my waist and spins me around, dancing with me as lights break from his voice, few broken pieces of lamp going into my feet with no screams, I might puke if I make a noise. Painful._

_Having him here is so comforting, the shadow man will care for me._

He rolls his eyes at all his writings. Objectively, they aren’t all that bad but he wants to kinda burn all of them. He wants to burn all of the old papers he’s finding, watching discord light up on his computer while going through and letting them go as he sits down in his seat, pressing ‘accept’ and leaning back in his chair. No face cam makes his life so damn easy, he’s never showing his face so he doesn’t have to go through his hair or anything, he doesn’t have to do shit to look presentable for his friends calls but instead he can hear him talk.

“Hey man, thanks for the letter, nobody’s ever done something like that for me before. Especially across the ocean, that must’ve cost a shitton.”

“Barely anything, I wanted to say it like that and thought sending pictures of a letter is kind of stupid so I sent it instead, did you really read it already?”

“Yeah! I read it as soon as I got it! You’re a real poet, I would love to see some old writings before you got comfortable like this—it’s honestly so impressive, you should write a book.”

“You don’t want my old writings, I was going through them: they’re pretty edgy and all about not understanding neurotypicals before I even knew what those were y’know—I’ll show you sometime if you come over here.”

“That would be a huge honour! I should write you a letter back probably, don’t expect me to do it as well as you wrote mine—that shit was genuinely beautiful. Reminded me of this display we had a while ago of a British soldiers love letters to a French one or something—not that you are in love with me! God I would hope you aren’t! That would be kind of awkward for a while since, y’know, I’m straight.”

All he does is laugh for a moment before he leans back and cracks his knuckles, continuing to talk with the slightest smile, “I’m not I’m not. I get what you mean, similar style? I’ve always had a pretty romantic style, I just don’t like writing romance or love letters. I did to an ex girlfriend and she was really mad about it so I never really did it again—I don’t know what made her so mad about it.”

“Me neither! I’d be flattered if my girlfriend wrote me a love letter, man, that seems so sweet and you take so much time to do those kinds of things. I think you get what I mean, at least mostly.”

“Yeah, I love letters in general. They’re slow and horrible in all ways but it’s about the aesthetic of sending someone a letter and the sincerity of paying the stamps and all.”

“Yeah, Yeah, aesthetic boy. We have a stream to start in two minutes, get on Minecraft.”

“Sure, sure, I will.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day nine: ANIMALS.
> 
> Sapnap. It’s Sapnap and I guess Georgenap? Mostly platonic though, slight implied romance parts, roommate AU, not streamers AU

George has a cat. Sapnap learned it when he moved in and was greeted with steps running towards him and the cat happily pressing its fur against his bare thigh since he had worn shorts. He learned George, his new roommate, had a cat that was affectionate and small enough to be held like a taco in his hand. He jokingly took her into his hand and looked at her, eye to eye with the small animal staring at him like him being there was something too intriguing to not pay attention to—Sapnap simply whispered to the cat it must have ADD and put her on the floor as George came into the room to grab his bags and talk about the flight the younger had just gotten off of while all Sapnap could think was that maybe he should’ve specified he has a cat instead of putting ‘must not be allergic to dogs or cats’ on his roommate application—then again that probably would’ve been a clear sign if Sapnap hadn’t seen some insane people who insisted, for example, that their roommate had to be left handed or that they had to go to a certain college, or what they were studying or what year they could be I —if world were sane, he would’ve known George had a cat.

The cat was a lot to get used to at first, she’d jump on the table and attempt to drink his cereal milk or would scratch the shitter door late at night when George went to do his business—at first he didn’t like the fact there was a cat at all, though George was the best roommate from the start (a bit loud—and insistent that Sapnap play the violin for him sometime. Then again, he supposes that’s politeness) and helped him understand work he had issues with. George definitely forgave him calling his friend during the night and playing Minecraft in his room during the night. He didn’t seem too bothered by anything Sapnap actually did from the start so if the worst part of his roommate would be the fact his cat trying to drink his breakfast milk then goshdarnit he got a good fucking roommate (and he may have intentionally left some milk in his bowl after eating—peace offering so the cat doesn’t try to drink it while he is still eating for the morning. It’s definitely not because he likes the small thing that’s growing bigger and bigger and is starting to warm up to him after his milk offerings.)

George volunteers, he learns about it when he asks Sapnap to feed his cat since he’d be late. Of course, Sapnap does, he isn’t a huge fan of animals but the cat can’t just starve either (he’s not a sadist—he just has been unlucky with them and never treated them correctly—Dream screamed him out for holding his cat wrong one time, scariest shit he still sees in his nightmares when he falls asleep. He genuinely looked terrifying) and starving a cat isn’t even acceptable on any level. Besides, the small thing needs to grow a tiny bit so he doesn’t feel the need to carry him in one hand. Not quite the best way but she’s just so small and taco like—and he wants to hold onto her because of that. And sure, he isn’t a fan of animals, but he loves to look at the small cat eat food that somehow fits into her in a way Sapnap’s unable to figure out—the cat meows at a bag of food that looks bigger than his whole body for fucks sake. He isn’t sure about her name, he’s heard George say different ones sheepishly every time someone asks, he doesn’t really care tho. The cats pretty fucking cute when she eats tho, he’ll admit it a hundred times over.

George volunteers for an animal shelter, Sapnap learns talking to him about the small black cat they got in that he pet for a few hours to calm down. He learns George really likes animals more than he had expected, the man’s not very socially aware and that makes him feel better about clinging to Dream like he does and crying every goddamn day they don’t talk since George is similar to him on hundreds of small levels that makes him feel like him not talking to people is okay—but the way he talks about animals is sort of cute, the kind you’d hear a popular guy talk about football or something like getting together with a girl, it’s confident but the thing he speaks about is so soft and nice and it’s so cute to listen to him go on about the cats and dogs and the other animals he sees. He doesn’t seem cocky but he seems very interested in what he does, if he can explain it that way, his hands petting the cat in his lap unconsciously while listening to him talk about how much fun it is to be around all the animals and how much kinder the animals are than you would think. He talks like he’s a therapist for the cats, or a teacher proud of how his students have progressed. He is a good guy, Sapnap notes. Still loud and screamy but the conversation changed something in his eyes, the cat in his lap sensing it too with a purr—this cat is good, this particular animal he likes a lot.

He still laughs when Dream gets attached to the dog while playing Fallout, talks about it constantly, but now that the small cat his roommate has is in his lap he understands why Dream likes patches even with the small ‘yelps’ he lets out when the bigger cat scratches him. The cat scratches him too, playfully on the arm after he boops it’s tiny pink little nose, George laughing from his laptop watching the duo on the sofa. He still likes the cat with the scratch on his arm, he likes her a tiny bit more for having so much attitude. He likes girls with attitude—in the least creepy way of course.

He doesn’t know how he and George ended up going to the animal shelter together or how George ended up giving him a cat in his arms—nor how the cat ended up being so clingy to him being so warm. The girl is orange, a black mask over her eyes, and she closes her green eyes like a forest with sand yellow mixed in (though George insists its all yellow, Sapnap learns the man is colour blind that very visit and proceeds to poke fun of him with the cat in his arms—testing the waters and George responds perfectly. George responds well to him, he’s very loud and screechy but intelligent with his words in a way he finds attractive enough. They bully each other until they come home)

Sapnap realises he likes animals on the fourth visit to the shelter with the same cat purring at his leg and George giggling and petting her head affectionately. He’s quite a fan of cats, this particular one especially, they start to affectionately call her Taiyō (masculine, weeb name. They know. It’s just very fitting because she’s so bright and loving and warm and they both apparently like anime and Japanese culture so).

He’s heartbroken when Taiyō is adopted, it’s when he realises he actually like the cat a lot. George is affectionate (more than normal—George isn’t one for affection he has noted) and let’s him hold his cat to feel better. Dream is also very nice, though through call, telling him that the cat is in a better place (After repeated attempts to pronounce the name, ones George gets all giggy hearing about from Sapnap later, before giving up and just saying ‘the cat’ the rest of the call. Sapnap makes it a point to tease him by asking which cat fifteen more times than he really should’ve—until it doesn’t even get a pity laugh).

Sapnap gets a side job at the shelter when college loosens up a little, opening the door for George when he comes in to volunteer and leaving together to feed George’s cat. She’s grown into a big purring girl and the first time she rubs against Sapnap’s leg with affection he practically screams with excitement, the cat has fully accepted him (especially when she, for the first time, neglects sleeping with George to sleep with Sapnap instead. The younger jokingly suggests sleeping together so their child doesn’t get confused who to sleep with and George blushes like a fire truck before saying he’ll think about it—Sapnap almost says they can cuddle as friends if it does happen but keeps his mouth shut.)

Dream visits, with Peaches on his tail, and Sapnap is immediately crouching down to let the girl sniff him. Dream asks George if Sapnap has been replaced by a robot, the two of them laugh and bond while George’s cat avoids Sapnap like the plague for cheating on her with patches and petting her as well. Naturally, they only hit each other with slight slaps before becoming best friends and both laying in Sapnap’s lap. It’s a great time, he’s got two girls on his lap and his friends are taking pictures to prove the situation while laughing their asses off—Sapnap can tell they’ll be good friends too.

They take Dream to the shelter, cats and dogs all around both excited and absolutely uninterested in Dream simultaneously—they do let him pet them but Sapnap is warmer and thus he is soon nothing but the god of cats and dogs as Dream watches in jealousy (that is until George comes in with food and Sapnap no longer stands a chance against the fresh scent of packaged beef—now George is the favourite being circled with waving tails.) When Dream leaves, he makes jokes about Sapnap probably working at the shelter until retirement. Sapnap isn’t ready to admit that sounds like a dream come true (pun not intended), to be with George and the animals until he retires.

Sapnap is a surprising big with animals for only lately growing any care for them, walking the dogs at the shelter is his favourite thing and having the cats climb on him is a close second—but George is a good third, giggling at every time a cat scratches him and he pretends to be offended, gigging every time dogs jump at him and ruin his clothes. Even at their home, Bean (their cat—Sapnap finally learned her name some time ago and for some reason naming their child’s name felt wrong) tends to be at his leg and sleep on his side of the bed. George acts offended that the cat prefers him but also admits Sapnap is warm so he understands Bean’s adoration of him—it’s really affectionate of him to call him warm so Sapnap can’t help laughing at him.

So Sapnap can conclude, he does actually like animals (unlike he thought)

Oh, and George is cool too!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10 (day 10): Night to remember.
> 
> It’s actually the first chapter (I’ll make a separate story with the rest) of this prom day AU I have where schlatt and Minx bond at church. Intended platonic

“If Wilbur takes a second longer, I am asking Techno to drive,” Tommy speaks, looking at the closed door with Phil on the phone, Techno fumbling with his shirt next to him and putting his pink tie back on better. Okay, he doesn’t particularly want to go to a dance but he’s part of the student council and that makes his job to go to things like these at least for a moment (also makes it his job to be way overdressed, Tommy is literally in a red button up and whatever Wilbur is planning to come out in will just be fashion forward—he’s the only one in a tie and blouse as well—god fuck his asexual ass with a chainsaw.) Tommy seems irritated by their brother, speaking into the phone in a matter of fact way, “I know Techno doesn’t have a license, that’s not the point. Tell him to hurry it the fuck up, dad.”

“I CAN HEAR YOU!” Wilbur screams, opening the door and yup, Techno was right, he’s not formal as much as a magazine looker from Japan. I mean what the fuck is a half shirt jumper and a dress shirt tucked into high waisted pants—fucking what the hell, he doesn’t understand fashion or think his brother is the most fashion forward guy but if it makes him happy and looks okay, “Let’s go—sorry, cut my fucking hand open trying to shave.”

“You what?” Tommy questions with a caring voice as they approach the car, quickly turning into teasing, “How the fuck did you do that, big W? Tried to find out if you were cake?”

“If I’m cake, I’m red velvet and runny,” Wilbur speaks with a shrug, lifting up the hand. The cut runs from his thumb to his middle finger, covered by a few bandages, “Dre is going too, right?”

“Yeah, we’re students council,” Techno explains, getting in the shotgun seat with a lift of his legs, pulling his ponytail tighter so the pink hair doesn’t fall loose—he’s impulsive, it was blood red a while ago but then he grew it out and cut it and then it was his natural for a while but he had a breakdown around Thursday (two days ago) and got bleach and pink hair dye so he got pink hair out of it. He may or may not have also pierced his tongue, surprisingly deciding to have a professional do it after diying his ears—it may have something to do with the face he could’ve fucked it up (or actually, technically, Minx could’ve fucked it) and made him mute. He rather likes talking, even after reading a wikihow article on the subject and concluding it easy enough—because if it’s on your face, don’t do it yourself. Maybe nose, if you’re really sure and have a friend who knows what they’re doing maybe do your nose. But ears are the only ones to just do. But hey he’s a high school, about to be, graduate, please he’s just an almost college student anything he does doesn’t represent what you should do.

“Fundy, m’boy!” Wilbur speaks, taking the other boy into a hug in the yard just in front of the dance, the Dutch boy smiling, “You look real handsome today!”

“Thanks! I thought I looked really masculine today!” Fundy exclaims, happiness coating his voice completely in a warm blanket, “Y’know Niki promised to come with me and—honestly this is awesome, first time going to a dance as a guy!”

“You’ve got this, brother,” Wilbur responds, ruffling the boys hair with affection as he puffs out his chest, “M’boy is going to blow everyone away.”

“Thank you Wilbur,” Fundy speaks, hugging him, “For everything. Love you ‘dad’.”

“Love you too, ‘son’. Have a good night with Niki, she’s a nice girl isn’t she?” Wilbur asks, winking with Fundy rolling his eyes.

“It’s just as friends. You know I have a thing for someone else.”  
“Oh speaking of which,” Wilbur speaks, looking around for a moment with Fundy hiding in his hands, “That someone should be here today.”  
“Doesn’t really matter,” Fundy speaks with a shrug, hopefully glancing around for just a moment, “Probably not into me.”

Wilbur shrugs, in a ‘you never know’ kind of way as Niki walks up and grabs Fundy’s hand, the flats clicking against the ground slightly walking up.

“Lover boy! Did you not get a date?” someone asks from behind Wilbur, immediately clear to hear as Wilbur rolls his eyes.  
“I came stag, yeah, you and minx? Or Quackity?”  
“Quackity didn’t get a date either, you’re not alone. I bet the children are going together, aren’t they? Whatcha say, Tommy? Tubbo didn’t say anything, no matter how I tried to get it out of him, saying I would just bully him.”

Tommy shrugs, checking his phone again, his best friend's older brother may be worse than his two brothers combined, “Yeah, technically, we’re probably dancing together. Only because my girlfriends are busy tonight.”  
“Multiple? What a pimp.”  
“Tommy, they were lesbians,” Techno explains with a sigh, as if he has gone through this hundreds of times. He probably has, Tommy just can’t stop harassing lesbians on accident and he, as the guy who lesbians find funny, has to save his brother and the lesbians from horrible fates. It’s probably bad it’s him, he’s the least socially developed brother after all. It doesn’t make sense he stops his brother's mistakes.

As the doors open, they enter in as a group before dividing up again, the three brothers sitting together to the side while Niki and Fundy (as well as Minx and Jschlatt—the later pair aggressively arguing with each other until minx crushes Schlatt’s foot and threatens to never wear the pink wig after tonight to get him to stop with the bullying) go out to do some kind of dancing with Quackity slowly sneaking in to sit with them.

It only takes a moment before Tubbo enters, finds Tommy and asks him to dance with bright eyes for the two friends to go dance together as well, Quackity sliding closer to fill Tommy’s space.

“Where’s Dream?” Wilbur asks Techno, looking around when his brother just shrugs. He doesn’t bother asking why Wilbur is so obsessed with finding him, assuming it’s for his own reasons.

“There,” Quackity points after a moment, the other side of the gym showing a figure quickly approaching them in a green shirt and black pants, wearing his regular mask.

“Hey,” Dream speaks, extending his hand to Techno with what seems like an attempt at a charming smile, “Can I have this dance?”

“Dream I’m ace,” Techno is quick to reply, Dream laughing with a slight wheeze at the implication.

“Techno you can dance as friends, c’mon now, are you scared I’m a better dancer than you?” Dream asks, Techno taking his hand after Wilbur gives him a thumbs up.

Quackity doesn’t stay for long, quick to cross the floor and get himself a partner in George with confidence.

“Are you not with schlatt?” George asks hesitantly, getting a head shake from Quackity, “Okay then. Let’s dance I guess.”

Wilbur watches his friends for a moment longer, nearly grateful he hasn’t been asked but mostly disappointed nobody saw him worth a shot, before Sapnap stands in front of him, extending his hand in a way that tells him this will be a night to remember after all, smiling wildly.

“Hey. We don’t talk much but this could be a good chance to get to know! Wanna dance?”

“Yeah, Yeah, seems good.”

If Wilbur has one thing he hopes to never confess, it’s how he can’t dance a single step. But while dancing he concludes Sapnap isn’t much better (if at all) and it’s all in good fun. And now he knows he’ll remember this dance thing for a long time, stepping on each other 50 times giggling has solidified it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11, day eleven: history.
> 
> Haha, platonic Dreamnoblade and vaguely probably romantic Georgebur with a hint of added Karlnap because fucking I am so tired. Also not historically fully accurate—o o p s. But y’know takes place in the past so.

As far as kingdoms reach, fields of green with skies so blue you can’t help but feel mesmerised by the water like features it has—a life is long lived by rivers spanning hundreds of blocks in length, a peace, a utopia of sorts working its way towards the castle in a steady stream. The kingdom around the small river is nothing but the best (not that there are places to compare it to) run by one king and three of his children, princes involved in different things.

The eldest of the kings children, Technoblade, wishing to hide away from the duties with worship and love and instead work towards things unseen to keep the Kingdom safe and fed—his favourite food is potatoes, says the rumour whispered over the fields. Last sight of the oldest was so long ago that the theories, rumours much less innocent, started to raise their heads in waves upon waves of uncertainty—what made the eldest so opposed to being seen without his gown, face hidden away from the world under a pig mask. Many started to question if he was the first born at all, nothing but a fake to take the citizens by storm with talents and stories of hours slaved away to provide for them. The secrets of the oldest son, spanning over decades of little whispers, did start to rise upon the moment a young and talented swordsman from the local inn claimed to speak to Technoblade on the regular, claimed to train with him and be his friend. The masked boy got doubts until he was declared the personal knight of the oldest son a year or so ago, the kingdom launched into absolute awe.

The middle child, Wilbur, may well be the kingdom favourite in the terms of future king status. He’s a beautiful boy with good manners and royal status after all, the number one sought after boy in the land even with the rumours spreading of him already having a child so young, even with the unbelievable ability of Wilbur to get water to submit to his will—it may be why he’s in charge of the kingdom goods and making sure their kingdom prospers in the sense of scheduling and lists. It’s rumoured the middle son may have a different brain with his ability to write down those trades in perfect lists, his schedules down to the dot. It’s not as important as the rumour of Wilbur having lost himself in the forest with the bastard son of an aristocrat singing together until the sun rose over the hillside, Wilbur dragging the boy into the castle with an awestruck smile last the public saw of him that particular night.

The youngest son, Tommy, is definitely far from seen for his charisma in the same way Wilbur is or his secrecy—instead Tommy is known for his closeness with the people, there’s no rumours when Tommy is in the bar to clarify and tell his stories with lots of laughter from the people. Tommy is definitely the favourite to have stay as a prince for the rest of his life, his childish wonder bewildering as he runs around with his friend Tubbo and meets the butcher and his husband for tea in the afternoons—there’s yet to be any clarification of why Tommy speaks to Sapnap and Karl so much (one the biggest butcher and animal farmer in town and one another bastardised ex aristocrat—what the appeal is is unclear but whatever Tommy feels happy doing). Tommy’s in charge of the public opinion and making sure of the aesthetics and homes (a job he keeps up with wonderfully, in the kingdoms eyes).

King Phil is of course the favourite, the reminders of times of him being the sole prince and disappearing into the forest for days on end in the way he protects his sons in a different way than his own father, he’s more lenient (definitely proven by Wilburs child—wait it’s supposed to just be a rumour he has one whoops what a narrator on accident). Phil runs over the last of everything, runs his finger over plans and approves or doesn’t approve, he does a bit of everything his sons do and the rest.

And the current moment, in front of his throne, his oldest son is requesting to step down from being the future king and requesting it will switch over onto Wilbur (the extroverted one, Techno isn’t too interested in being around all these social duties his father seems smothered by). In that singular moment, with Dream by his side as a friend and Wilbur watching over in shock, the decision gets made and Techno gets what he’s asked for in Phil’s will (he does laugh, stating he plans on staying around quite a while longer.)

He does, Phil sticks around in the kingdom for years as Wilbur dances with his daughter in the ballroom, that daughter growing into a son with the years he sits on the throne. He sticks around to see Techno be crowned the best fighter in the land after beating Dream in an event arranged in the next kingdom over. He sticks around when Tommy and Tubbo start looking into faster modes of transportation between the castle and Tubbo’s home until Phil just suggests Tubbo live in the castle instead of them trying to find a long string to hang baskets from, to let Tommy send messages from the castle whenever they should meet up.

Phil sticks around for how Wilbur finally publicly admits to having a son (years later—when Fundy has admitted he would rather be Wilburs son. It’s weird at first, it slips past him to call Fundy Wilbur’s daughter or his own granddaughter but he learns into it) and expresses that he refuses to not call him his son no matter how there’s attempts to convince him to call him a bastard since nobody knows the mother (the way Wilbur smiles sadly suggests she may well be dead, Phil notes since he has never asked. Wilbur has a new lover, he doesn’t seem comfortable talking about his previous one.) Even with the sadness in Wilbur’s life, it makes Phil so proud to see his son sticking to him morals like he does in that moment, it makes him so glad to be his father.

Tommy continues being the kingdom’s prince, continues talking to girls in that bar drinking juice and continues playfully fighting with guys—he’s grown up, he’s gotten his personality to be refined and charming in a way that has Phil’s heart feel tight with care towards his youngest son. It’s not a surprise to hear Wilbur is following his oldest brother’s footsteps and stepping down as well, deeming that Tommy will lead the nation better than him. Phil agrees after a moment of hesitation, Wilbur expressing he fears himself in any power and wishes to avoid a chance to ruin people’s lives with his arrogance is what makes his decide.

Phil sticks around for Techno to have taken care of the soil of the kingdom. There’s practically nothing but potatoes as far as eye can see for a while, making sure there’s enough food for years with Sapnap being such a fantastic butcher and Dream helping with his job—also helping Techno breed the horses in the stables until there’s one so fast and fantastic at jumping Techno claims it as his personal one.

Wilbur introduces his lover when Phil is planning on stepping down and settling down with the queen for the rest of their lives, just in a castle bedroom, it’s long been time for him to retire. Wilbur introduces George to the world, expressing sincere care towards his lover. Wilbur introduces him as the man who helped him raise Fundy, the man he fell in love with. The kingdom goes insane with adoration and jealousy—there’s partied until late night that one of the princes has a lover.

Another party starts when Phil says he will retire (making sure to express he will stick around—he is not planning to disappear from the kingdom but just to take his well deserved break—the drinking is more of a ‘long live the king’ situation than anything else.)

Phil has just retired when Tommy is sworn in, reading a speech with promises to keep the country prospering with shaky hands that so don’t match with his charismatic leader like voice—the speech having that clear telltale Wilbur charm and the rationality of Techno in a way that makes Phil believe more than ever that his boys will take good care of his kingdom even when he can’t advice them anymore. He will advise until Tommy doesn’t need it anymore, he promises Tommy he doesn’t have to do it alone and promises to help Tommy since he’s used to being held with the loosest leash.

Something tells him Tommy won’t need him long when he watches Tommy speak so seriously, give such intelligent orders in a small crisis, before lifting the mood with a few jokes. Tommy does it better than Phil could ever hope for, Tommy is better than he could’ve ever hoped for and he’s so glad Tommy isn’t taking too much work on his shoulders like Phil used to. He’s glad Tommy has fun doing his work, he’s glad he doesn’t need much advice once he hears and understands what the situation he is in actually is. Phil is glad for so many things about the way his youngest son is handling it, concluding him the best man for the job he could’ve possibly appointed.

They get into a war, Techno leads them to victory with Dream helping him present the plans. They come home having doubled the size of the kingdom with minimal blood and Phil is glad he got to see his oldest son feeling at least something with the victory they have achieved.

He’s proud to see Wilbur doing music, proud to see him keeping the mathematics in check so Tommy isn’t overwhelmed by them too quickly while teaching Tommy little by little. He’s glad to see Wilbur tearing up and hugging his son when the boy introduces him to his fiancé. He’s glad he saw his grandson as a nearly wed, he’s glad to see his son in law and Wilbur so happy for him. He’s so happy for Fundy as well, he’s happy to witness their family.

He’s happy to witness how fantastic Tommy has gotten at being the king, he’s glad to see him holding his head high with Tubbo by his side and he’s glad to see his youngest son had such a good friend to help him rule. He’s glad Tommy isn’t overwhelmed at all, he’s glad Tommy has stayed so youthful.

When he stops sticking around, it isn’t bitter at all and he’s smiling about all he got to be and see.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12: Supp sunset—I hate this chapter I love sunsets but I’m so busy today I wrote in like 25 min.
> 
> Dreamnap, high school.

There’s a level of discomfort in sitting in a classroom alone, blinking away sleep as the clock drags towards the afternoon. The afternoon he swears he can hear, just the two of them walking the train tracks running through the town and jumping away when there are trains speeding on the tracks towards them. It’s this breathless moment of school tiredness, eyes growing into the state of sleepy awaiting as his right hand trails over the paper. He can hear Karl in the back of the classroom, laughing with some girl he doesn’t know too well but can identify as being funny and knows her name to be Minx. George went on a date with her some time ago, he’s pretty sure, the girl spat on him and ran away afterwards with a million apologies. He quite likes her, not in the ways of romance, he likes her in the friendly way he likes lots of people in the class.

He’s struggling to write everything down—not because he’s bad at writing because he is a huge fan of poetry and writes with precision and inspiration in ways that show he’s a fan of John Keats and the many others—but because the subject is simply boring to him. He’s sat here, listening to a lecture about the presidential election happening in two years from now and how it’s their obligation to vote as the next generation. Don’t get him wrong, voting is important, but the lecturer is dull and emotionless and the next election is too far away for him to be intrigued by the policy promises of people already deciding to run. It’s simple, he can’t find it in himself to care or copy all the bullshit the squeaky old board has written down even when hearing there’s going to be a test about all this bullshit.

When the teacher announces they are free to go, he practically jumps and eyes around the room for Sapnap. He’s so happy about their evening today, their plan to go to the shops for a bit of alcohol and run around the town tipsy having the time of their life in ways nobody has ever seen before the two of them is fresh on his mind as his eyes search with intrigue until he sees Sapnap and practically rushes to be by him.

Teacher asks him to stay behind, Dream leaving the room with a slight sense of unease as he looks around at everyone and taps his foot, rapidly clicking his phone on and off as he thinks about how to present his situation in a way Sapnap, a fucking arsonist, can understand with his fingers typing wildly for a stupid result,

‘My jealousy burns me, it’s like a forest fire that consumes everything in its way, my jealousy is painful and scary in a way I can’t find my lips describing, can’t find my fingers typing. My jealousy is the ember when you’re with me, angry and ready to be lit again, and it’s this burning of hatred when you leave me and when you talk about people who you want to go out with or people you want to get to know and it’s unhealthy to be this hot but I cannot help it even if I don’t explode hearing you talk about people around you. It’s burned me a hundred times, practically every way when you leave me, those lingering thoughts of telling you how I feel making me want to confess that fuck I want more than this. My jealousy burns me and it hurts to not be able to control it. And my jealousy is without a reason because you don’t like me, I’m just a best friend but it’s like everything around me is warm and comfy when you’re around and then suddenly I’m the flaming forest you left behind. I don’t know how to say what I feel because I’m stupid but I’m just jealous—and I wish I could kiss you’

He doesn’t know what part of his possesses him when Sapnap comes back but his hands take Sapnap’s and he runs off from the school towards somewhere the two can be alone with a dragged Sapnap behind him. Thing is, they’ve always kind of been like this. It has always been a thing. He gets a slap on his shoulder and Sapnap runs towards their destination, his smile wide and happy with genuinity seeing someone he truly loves run down and away from him until he realises he has to give chase.

Dream doesn’t hesitate running after the other boy at all after he realises he has forgotten himself in thoughts that he doesn’t know much about, doesn’t know if they should cross his mind. He runs down after the shorter boy, down the hill towards their special spot they found as children with the quickest steps his legs can manage. It feels like freedom, this moment where the guy with the bandana below him on the hill becomes a closer and closer object in his vision. The coldness slowly making itself into the air with sunset having just begun (blame autumn—or thank it, the colours are the most gorgeous things ever just lighting everything with orange hues. Everything is orange and it’s so beautiful) makes him feel even better, his hair absolutely fucked up already as he catches up to his best friend and slaps him shoulder to let him know to catch him next, speeding with an extreme turn towards the spot as the shorter boy complains about his longer legs giving him an advantage (jokingly of course). Soon he gives chase at well with the beautiful sundown becoming a backdrop from a dream when Dream finally stops running and declares himself the champion of their little catching game.

He’s breathless when his eyes scan the sunset, it’s early and in every way a clear sign of autumn with the leaves laying around him on the ground and even sticking to his shoe with Sapnap gladly taking it with him, both of them watching the trees practically engulf the sun.

“Thank fuck we’re not drunk yet,” Dream admits while looking at the beautifully slowly darkening sky with a few side glances, “I would’ve hated to not see this sober.”

“Looks like aurora,” the shorter comments unhelpfully, still earning a nod from the other boy, “Honestly reminds me of anime or something, the mood of it.”

“What kind of anime?” Dream asks, knowing full well he has never watched anime, “the cherry blossom shit?”

“Kind of,” he speaks, quiet, “I actually really like those kinds of things. Just the early sunset and us, man? What else can you wish for?”

“Nothing…. I wanna do this forever, I want to be with you forever, I wanna—I,” Dream tries to start, swallowing with his friends eyes on him and his tracing the sundown, “I want—I wish—kiss you. I wanna do that. I don’t know what to say I just want that, I’m so—I don’t. I do. I just.”

They kiss as the sky starts turning red and start running off together when the purple is coming in, Dream repeating his writing to sapnap and the other boy giving commentary and in the end kissing his cheek.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13: Poetry.
> 
> Length proves my love for poetry, intentionally vague.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling in thought with your head pounding, pleading to have something, anything, absolutely anything, happen. You don’t exactly know what happened, Brain fuzzy and weirdly like a small wave turning bigger and bigger as it licks at your brain, looking for a moment at the ceiling even more before sitting up. Definitely not your house but you have a faint idea you’ve been here before, looking at the ripped jeans thrown over a chair with your shirt next to it, even if the jeans definitely aren’t yours. You definitely remember wearing something else, looking under the blanket if it could show you what only to find nothing on you, no clothes but boxers on. Why that’s absolutely fantastic. That’s just the best thing.

The other person walks into the room, the one from tonight—last? You don’t fucking remember when your last memory was but you remember him, even now when he’re pulling hair back with a soft smile, a small manbun. he look much nicer than you think you subconsciously expected, maybe your view of him last night in a leather jacket and with ripped jeans has falsified your memory. You can’t help it though, he look absolutely adorable blinking at you with slight freckles covering him completely from shoulders to face to neck to everywhere else, slowly looking the person in his underwear over with the slight tattoos drawing attention to themselves. They’re small, lovely, pretty, artsy yet meaningful as you run your eyes over to the protest tattoo, a small dove with a small affectionate huff. Takes you a moment to realise what it is, it’s the newest, the darkest, the clearest, a clear sign of interest in protest still going in. When you look, he does look slightly like someone who would take being a dove very literally, but it could easily be the tan and relaxed long hair tricking him based on stereotype. Maybe the person who’s house you’re in is just passionate about human rights and the happenings of the world, it almost makes you laugh to see him, in a happy way you can’t quite explain anything about. he get the ripped jeans off the back of the chair, pulling him up and grabbing a white belt to push through the loops of the jeans— he look good, you don’t exactly know what you should be calling him. But being around him comes naturally. It’s a definite he, long body with long hair .

“So,” he speaks, slowly, giving out a hand you’re quick to take, “I’ll just get dressed and take you home, hope you don’t puke out the window of my car again.”

You smile, you remember puking coming home with this person all of a sudden, remember having the curly haired person explain he is sober enough to drive, laugh at your puking, helping you afterwards.

“I won’t... Can I get dressed?”

“Yep,” he laughs, pulling you up with a friendly smile—you quite like his smile, he smiles very kindly if that is a good way to describe it. He has a very kind face in this way that isn’t round or childish but simply nice and sharp in the way that feels like it’s made out of clay—it’s his eyes that give him his comfort, the kind of eyes that make you want to grab him and pull him on the bed to cuddle a little bit, “Are you in a hurry? I could take you to have breakfast.”

“No. Not busy at all actually. I’m—I’m really free today, nothing to do and I mean if you want to do something like that I am free and like if you want to—stay I mean what stay haha what does that word mean?”

He’s laughing with a smile, covering his eyes unintentionally while letting laughter escape him. You have to admit his laugh is as unique as everything in his presentation, his hand put on the bed as he sits on it and taps the place next to him. You swallow your heart that’s threatening to come out through your mouth and sit down still in your boxes. Considering his clothes were here too, it’s no surprise for him to see you less than dressed. At least hopefully it isn’t, if it is you’ll change.

“Last night was great, man,” he speaks with a smile, running a hand through his hair as if it were the softest thing in existence. He’s energised, in this slight way you barely notice with his knee going up and down in an almost hypnotic pattern, up down up down up down, you’re not particularly good at paying attention and the clothed bouncing leg isn’t helping you at all. Up down up down up down. It’s nice to have it just go up and down and up and down and goddamnit how are you this zoned out this easily?

“I don’t know much about what happened, I’m afraid,” you admit, hand slithering towards the back of your neck uncomfortably. You don’t know why you don’t want to have it go up, maybe because it’s a very visual clue you feel bad about yourself right now and you don’t like leaving visual clues. Your discomfort is your discomfort, why make it a performance.

“You bought me a drink and started quoting Sappho at me,” he speaks with a shrug, your embarrassment rising even higher because fucking really with Sappho of all the fucking people it couldn’t have been something more fitting than ‘hey let me buy you a drink, my girlfriend has a very soft chest and I like to sleep on it’ but no you had to go with Sappho like you always seem to do in the awkward situations, “So naturally I responded with quoting Shakespeare.”

“Quoting Shakespeare?” You question with a chuckle, suddenly much more lifted in mood. Okay nothing, and absolutely nothing, is more of an embarrassment than quoting Shakespeare. Do you even literature bro? At least make it John Keats or an author you aren’t required to read to make yourself sound intelligent.

“Yes. I was quoting a sonnet and you were giggling at me and then you quoted T.S. Eliot and I quoted his back and then you quoted John Keats so I quoted Shakespeare again and then you quoted John Keats yet again and thus I quoted T.S. Eliot. And then you and I had an actual conversation and you came home with me and puked out of my car, which thankfully didn’t dirty my car by the way thank you for asking, and then you and I decided to go to bed and cuddle and then I woke up and left you to sleep, pretty easy stuff,” he expresses, recounting the story with funny noises and hand movements in between to make the story feel more alive, “Y’know when I went to the particular bar I didn’t expect you to be tipsy and buy me a drink by telling me, pretending to talk to someone else, ‘that man to me seems equal to gods’ and then while I got my drink to say ‘but my tongue is frozen in silence, instantly a delicate flame runs beneath my skin’ but there’s always a first time I guess.”

“I—I was expecting much worse I’ll be honest with you,” you express, “perhaps drunk me does know how to fli—I mean talk.”

“I said ‘Then others, for the breath of words respect, me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect’. Arguably not the best thing to quote but I was simply—I—how do I say this? I wasn’t prepared? To flirt with a guy in a bar at eleven in the afternoon with poetry? Otherwise I would’ve revised,” he speaks with a shrug, you rolling your eyes with a tiny laugh.

“You said, ‘I have seen the moment of my greatness’ and may I mention you gestured to the door as if to say we should go, ‘Let us go, you and I’ and while this made no fucking sense I felt like it made sense in the moment as you flirting with me and maybe asking me to leave,” he continues with you crossing your arms

“It does! It makes all the sense! I have seen the moment of my greatness, it begins with you and I going. It makes absolutely fucking sense!” You defend, him laughing again.

“Sure, baby. I could not make sense of it since I was buzzed as shit but I knew you were flirting. So I went with TS. Eliot back because it’s the only poet I could fucking remember—how did you remember so many so drunk?”

“Hyperfixations—now what did you tell me?” you ask, intrigued.

“Proceeded to have a brain fart and forget what I was trying to say before I remembered with you giggling the whole time before I finally said ‘In a minute there is time for decisions’ implying I wanted to get to know you. You proceeded to John Keats me with ‘I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days - three such days with you‘. That was very sweet by the way, I don’t think anyone has wanted to be butterflies with me before.“

“You deserve,” you start before blushing, “You deserve to be a butterfly, at least those three days free of all responsibility.”

“Didn’t know you were a poet even without quotes,” he speaks, you being the one to laugh.

“Not a good one—please continue.”

“I quoted Shakespeare. ‘Hear my soul speak: The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service’ and you giggled at me fucking again and I swear it was because I was quoting Shakespeare. But you quoted John Keats, ‘I have had a thousand kisses, for which with my whole soul I thank love, but if you should deny me the thousand and first it would put me to the proof how great a misery I could live through.’ You quoted the same poet at least twice back to back yet be amused by me quoting Shakespeare twice during a late night. Sir I have a lot of questions.”

“Did I get a kiss though?” You ask with a grin, knowing full well, “I seem to remember such a thing occurring.”

“Me kissing you? Happened after I quoted Pablo Neruda, ‘I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair’ and you took it as an invitation to push your vodka breath into my mouth—not that I minded. I quite enjoyed it. I kind of—want to talk to you more? It was intriguing to have someone say nothing but poetry for a lengthy time.”

“‘It feels right to be up this close in tight wind’,” you speaks with a smile, leaning in closer with a smile, “‘About you there is nothing I wouldn’t want to know’.”

“Who’s is that?” He asks after a moment, a slight smile on his lips.

“Peter Gizzi. You did not think I only knew John Keats and TS Eliot with a sprinkle of Sappho, did you?” You ask, faking offence, him laughing and standing up.

“Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine, In one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine?” He asks, another one of his quotes, this one by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

“So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be,” You respond, quoting Alfred Tennyson with a smile.

“Is this a no?”  
“May I say my response?”  
“Of course, ‘suspense is worse than disappointment’.”

You almost feel proud he knows so much, in a weird way, Robert Burns is a pretty good writer after all.

“I cannot think of a poem that has the word yes right now,” you let out, him laughing with a wide smile, “so how about John Keats? ‘Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.’ Because no poet straight up says yes.”

“Many do, we just can’t think of any,” he expresses, you claiming it to be the ‘same thing’ as he laughs, “Get dressed, poem boy.”

“I have a name,” you speak with a huff.  
“What is it?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 14: Journey.
> 
> Goooood mythical morning, I’m a day late. It’s just a bit over midnight which means fucking 15th, I apologise.
> 
> So this is no romance angst mostly Tubbo and Quackity with some Tommy, mentions of Schlatt x Quackity and implied abuse I think???

The night is a good cover for him as he opens the window, looking down at the world below for a moment before deciding he has done enough car watching, watching the lights so hypnotic he spent too long doing it. He makes sure one more time he has everything and nobody is awake or at least aware of him before gripping to the windowsill, kicking his leg on top of the lower window while hanging off the window, kicking slightly as he slowly slides down and grabs the top of that window, putting his feet on the windowsill before jumping backwards into the garbage, getting out quickly and thanking the black bags for not making him dirty. He can’t afford to be hurt or die right now, not right now, so he has to be careful about all of this.

People in his life are pieces of shit other than Tubbo and Tommy who asked him to escape in the first place. Everything has been garbage and it’s finally enough in that moment just a few days ago. So when he made the pact with the others, he didn’t even wonder for two damn seconds. He knew his chance and took it, he had to take it. He couldn’t have Ignored his only way out just to stay in the house in the hope something might change, in hopes Schlatt may become a better president and in hopes George will take a second to protect him instead of being inactive and breaking his disillusionment that someone other than him and Tubbo have fucking morals in that place. He can’t afford that for himself or anyone else, he has to leave now, tonight, staying would be stupid.

So he silently stumbles to the place they were supposed to meet tonight. He’s going to assume he’s going to be the first person there as always, noting that he is right once he gets there and sees the horses they prepped for their journey forwards. He can think about plans for the moment he has alone, wondering about how far they have to go and obviously get jobs or blend it otherwise somewhere else. He’s certainly not sure but they’ll figure everything out, even if he is the oldest and should know what to do.

So he waits for his friends, hoping nobody will see him and question his motive for being here at the middle of the night. Why would they care? Or—he hopes nobody cares, at least he hopes Schlatt or Wilbur won’t see. Or techno, he’s terrified of techno.

“Hey Tubbo,” he speaks, sitting at the place as they wait for Tommy, thinking back to the horrors for just a moment with fearful glances around. This, this here, was why they formed the pact. They formed the truthfully useful pact out of a need to get out of a very bad situation between the three of them. Once he woke up from his awestruck state with Jschlatt, due to Tubbo getting abused actually, it horrified him beyond belief to have them fall victim when Tommy and Tubbo are, even if he will never admit, really nice kids. 

Once Tommy gets to them too, he smiles, waves, and makes a spot for him with the smallest polite smile continuing to stay on his lips. This isn’t a happy night, he knows it isn’t. Tommy especially is losing his brothers for possibly forever but getting the chance at freedom, the both of the monsters in a way that you’d read comic books characters becoming. 

“So, time to go, eh?” He questions, looking at the torn down walls of L’manberg (now manberg). He won’t be back for a while, he has to take it in before they leave because they can’t just stay here, Tubbo and Tommy especially with their exile. They have to be the ones to leave, ones to lose their friends and the ones to go on as a trio now. It sucks.

Not the trio part, he likes having them here (at least well enough), he’d be sad if they weren’t here, he’d have no idea where to go if that happened. He’d have no idea what to do. But it’s sad they have to leave when they’re the innocent party, not so much him and Tommy but Tubbo has practically apolitical. And when Tommy seems close to tears, he nods understandingly, grabbing his hand and taking him onto the horse with a smile before sitting himself, slowly getting more doubtful himself but not letting it show, he’s stronger than these two purely on his years of life and he can take it, he can handle being the sure one, “It’s hard, it’ll be okay, I know it’s really hard, Tom.”

He smiles back gratefully, an expression he doesn’t think he has ever seen Tommy give him, with the youngest eyes slowly blinking in a way that speaks to the sleep deprivation of a child soldier—a boy barely sixteen who’s fought one war and is escaping an another is the saddest sight he has seen, now he has two boys in the exact same boat.

Tubbo taking a sort of lead and getting his horse moving is a sign it’s time to go, jim holding both of his hands on the reigns of the horse with a deep breath from somewhere deep within him, he feels like he’s about to have a fucking panic attack. He swallows it down, hiding his panic to speak as the horses start to go towards somewhere Tubbo seems to know, Tommy close to falling asleep.

“So we’re finally getting out, eh?” He speaks as the horses start really moving, truly meaning they are no longer in danger of being spotted. He prays to god in his head, swallowing again. This is real now. This is real. They’re getting out of that hellhole, “y’all feeling alright?”

He feels Tubbo’s eyes on him, trying to seem reassuring and kind in that way Tubbo seems to always try. He does end up responding, looking him in the eye for a moment as if to reassure him back. As if to make sure he knows he’s there, as if to make sure he thinks he knows what to do before turning towards the front again. God he hates everything about this situation they have found themselves in, especially the fact these two clearly got so hurt before he even thought for a moment to take them away or at least he knows Tubbo did. He did too obviously, he was the pleading puppy of a sadist just begging he love him for a second. Yeah not the funnest or most fulfilling experience but an experience nonetheless. But hey who cares if the experience wasn’t the best, he’s gotta look out for other people now, these two, because he knows they’ll end up his new family and he’ll be the head if nobody else steps up. He’s the oldest and Tubbo was already like a younger brother.

He hushes Tommy with a smile after the boy starts breathing unevenly (a sign of panic—he’s too familiar), trying to talk him through it like he would with anyone he loved, trying to make sure he feels okay at least somewhat. Because crying is never a good sign, it could be heard and it breaks his heart to have the positive Tommy so broken—he listens to Tubbo comfort way better than he could ever, listens to how the almost seventeen years old takes the lead on emotions neither of the others can barely handle themselves. Tubbo is so prepared, as if knew he was going to be the strongest off the bat, at least when it comes to emotions (perhaps he knew—Tubbo certainly knew both of them were shit with those. He’s pretty good with emotions. It’s something he has talent for, he would always be outwardly the most happy but cry on the inside when it came to the wars, he wasn’t the angry one or one with any emotion but uplifting positivity.)

Quackity’s other hand goes to take out a compass to make sure Tubbo is leading the right way, just in case he looks to him when they’re lost so he knows what to say, looking at the said compass for a moment before speaking to Tommy, trying to keep his voice as soft and even as possible, “You should probably sleep, you look like you saw a ghost.”

He continues thinking about things a moment too long, about Schlatt mostly and everything that led up to here with this weird guilt telling him he probably was the one in the wrong before realising he now has a job to do and being so sad isn’t apart of it, continuing with a look to Tubbo, “You think we can go a less rocky route? Or a fast one, you know because Tommy looks like he really needs it”

“This should be the clearest route to the house, we’ll continue in the morning so he gets some sleep,” Tubbo speaks, running his hand over his horses mane as he continues to speak, looking at the other two with the softest smile either of them have gotten in what feels like years upon years when in truth it’s days—Tubbo is so stupidly caring and actually knows what to do when Tommy starts protesting going to sleep when Quackity knows he’d just get mad, “Quackity and I will know the stop, probably better than you do, just close your eyes okay? You’ll be okay, we’ll make sure nothing bad happens, just sleep. If we need you, we’ll wake you up. We are not Wilbur, okay? We’re not letting you sleep to be mad about it later.”

Quackity tries to keep his voice soft yet assertive, trying his best to be a good head for everyone involved in this, everyone running away with him, because he feels like he has to protect them. He’s the oldest after all. And Tubbo looking worried after Tommy goes to sleep makes him ask a simple ‘what’s wrong’

“I can’t help but to think they’ll follow us,” Tubbo expresses, shaky, the positive numbness he has for a performance faded, “And if they do what can we do?”

“Of course they won’t follow us,” he speaks, softly, knowing it’s just wishful thinking but hoping he sounds assertive enough to sell it for once at least, wondering what they’ll do when they stop. He feels like he’s going to be honestly panicked when Tommy and Tubbo sleep, he’s going to have a fucking panic attack, he’s going to cry and scream and be a fucking mess as soon as he can go and do it, he can cry and scream. He’s going to lose himself when he doesn’t have to be strong, he’ll mourn and neither of them will ever know. He glances at Tommy, biting his lip, he’s surprised how open Tommy can be with him so quickly (he’s not open but he’s not hiding everything and sitting alert either—which is what he expected) since the idea of presenting that sensitivity to a guy like Tommy he would consider his enemy if Schlatt wasn’t a bigger threat just feels wrong.

“I don’t know, Quackity, I don’t know anything honestly. I’m scared they’ll find us, I’m scared we won’t have a permanent place to stay and I’m scared they’ll kill me again. I’m scared, I don’t think I’ve been as terrified as when he shot me, I don’t want to be trapped like that ever again. I don’t want to be put into a box as a prisoner, I don’t want to die again, I don’t want to lose Tommy again. I don’t—I can’t,” Tubbo explains, so fast for a boy that normally speaks so painfully slowly, “I’m scared and I don’t want Tommy to know I’m scared, he’ll get scared too. And I don’t want to burden you either but I’m just too scared—it’s stupid to be this scared and bother you. It’s stupid to trust you this much, I’m the one who convinced Tommy to let you escape with us. It’s all so stupid and I bet you’re feeling so much worse than I.”

“Tubbo, don’t worry about me, I will be just fine. We’ll all be fine, nothing bad will happen, you won’t die like that. I’ll make sure you never have to be this scared again okay? Never again,” he speaks, looking at Tubbo the whole time and continuing to run a hand in his horses mane while he speaks before he gets a more playful expression, humour is the one thing he knows how to do,

“Now you, good sir, what do you think we should do? In your opinion?” He asks, grinning and leaning back just slightly but not enough to make Tommy’s sleep end, thinking of something amusing to say before deciding on the first thing he can think of, not necessarily good but he’s very somber, “Since we’ve both been pregnant, even though you used it as an excuse that didn’t actually mean anything and you weren’t actually pregnant, would you like to play some poker and have some wine?”

“I appreciate it,” Tubbo speaks, smiling. He knew the joke was bad, he was scrambling to find anything, but the smile at least is good, “I just—I don’t know where we’ll stay.”

“Listen to me, we can figure this out, there is a village out there that can think of hosting us for very little money and we can figure out at least odd jobs easy, probably permanent if we seek permanent residency, you’re going to be okay, we’re going to be okay,” he speaks, that’s something he actually knows about everything they’re doing. They won’t be sleeping in a trash bag, they’ll be in a shitty bed all together probably. It’s going to be okay? He can tell them, “Okay so, that much we know will be okay, it’s going to be okay Tubbo. It’s other shit you know we have to worry about. We can make stops until that village, maybe we find one on the way, we know how to hunt. We’ll be okay. Do you understand me?”

Tubbo nods, building approaching as they ride close with Quackity taking a moment just breathing in and out. He’ll keep all of them safe, he has to, he has to keep all of them safe for them, he has to make sure they’re safe because that is his responsibility, one he takes with pride and pleasure, he will make sure Tubbo is safe as they journey across. He’ll make sure Tommy is okay through the journey. He’ll do this.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15: Burger King foot lettuce.
> 
> Aka y’all we writing about a tea shop because the prompt was tea and I got a good idea.
> 
> Hellooo platonic dreamnoblade.

He worked at the family tea shop from youth—it had always kind of been his thing since Phil adopted him and Wilbur (Wilbur was older than him, by a few months to the point of almost a year but he was the first one adopted) and much later adopted Tommy. He had sat come to the front desk like a porcelain doll as a toddler, his father running around and caring for him with his other hand while serving the customers—when Wilbur had been adopted, he was already a child and techno was close to being considered one as well. Wilbur was four, Techno was three, they would play together in the child section and life was good. When Wilbur started going to school, his school friends would join them in playing and all was good. The tea shop has always been his life, everything about him shined as an example of him growing inside the place. His love for heat of the backroom, nearly sweaty and moist but somehow keeping itself appropriate. His love for tea itself, the way he could drink it from a young age without cringing and the way he liked it a lot more than he probably ever should’ve—caffeine addict from a young age, you might say. He loved tea and Chinese culture from youth, his father expressing that no tea is not British even if he as a British white man knows how to make it and that starting his fascination with Sun Tzu and the art of war afterwards—it was intriguing for his family to see him hyperfixate on a Chinese strategist of all things he could’ve possibly hyperfixated on. They helped him get fencing classes when money started coming in actually, martial arts and fencing with Wilbur spending money reserved for him on papers, pencils, a guitar and guitar lessons. Life was great, life was good.

Tommy had joined when he was around nine to almost ten, what made Techno about twelve and Wilbur almost thirteen. It had been sudden that the boy just hung around in the tea shop without a parent (had confused Wilbur highly actually, he had been questioning the boy for a long while as Techno did some things in the backroom with Phil and other workers—Wilbur had seen how they boy seemed scared and felt bad and spoken to him afterwards). He had lived far sadder than Techno or Wilbur, though technically the lack of parents was a common factor for them all.

Tommy started showing up with his friend and friends older brother afterwards (his friend was his age, older brother Techno’s) and soon enough they had all become pretty close—Techno and his friends Tubbo’s older brother, Dream, especially so with the stupidest reasons that made no fucking sense. Dream and Techno both liked writing and poetry, they had discovered such just talking together at a booth in the tea shop about things with Dream quoting something or another—it was fun, it was nice, they spoke practically every day just sat at the tea shop until they learned they were in the same martial arts class and became inseparable there too. Techno was never good at affection, or talking to people, and Dream practically shined in the ways he carried conversation without a second of hesitancy.

Tea was definitely a big part of their friendship, like everything else in his life, he got Dream hooked on one tea type with ease but didn’t have such luck again until much later (Dream started liking mint-lemon tea; something so like him it almost made techno break though a stoic expression with the way it suited Dream. He almost laughed)

Dream and him deliberately went to the same high school, Dream deciding to ride the bus so it could happen and so they could be in the same class (you were allowed to put down two friends for classmates you’d like for high school—Techno wrote Dream twice just to make sure he would get him in his class while Dream put down some other friend with Techno as the first option) and they picked a lot of after school activities based only on how much they both liked them (with one common interest, one interest of Techno’s dream liked at least somewhat and one interest on Dream’s techno could tolerate. This ended up with martial arts yet again, Chinese club for techno who had actually screeched knowing there was a possibility he could just go to a club all about Chinese culture and language. Then Dream and his decision on creative writing, both of them liking it well enough and Dream explaining he already had a place to do parkour anyway)

It was just nice, living in the tea shop (well, above it. Ground floor for the tea shop, floor above for the family bathroom and Phil’s room as well as an office room with the attic housing Wilbur and Techno and later on Tommy.) He got Dream his first job there, they’d work together after school and sometimes on Saturdays before and after training with Tommy sitting around in the attic listening to Wilbur play guitar with awestruck eyes, Wilbur having already been in high school a moment when Techno entered (second year to his first—Tommy would come in when Wilbur was a cool senior and brag about being brothers with Wilbur and Techno to the point they themselves caught the gossip)

It was sophomore year when Tommy was adopted, that made Tommy so very close to fourteen and him sixteen, Wilbur already seventeen at that point. It had been a good day, techno had made them all tea and Phil had asked them all to help organise Tommy some space in the attic (they tried offering the office, Tommy told him he wanted to be with his brothers and the attic immediately got space made for him). Him and Dream had celebrated later, Dream wheezing like an idiot about everything and every joke from the way he explained Tommy needing to sleep with them to Tommy being loud in the mornings.

Dream had told him to have some pity, slapped him on the arm and told him how weird he found that Techno himself didn’t cling to his brother like a koala, Techno having shared the lack of memory he had for his childhood beyond the fact he was sure he was born on a pig farm (Dream had been delighted, oinking at him until Techno finally laughed the tea out of his nose—they had never forgotten that moment of laughter in their lives, mainly because Dream made the picture he had of Techno, blurry with movement, of Techno laughing over the cup of tea in front of him with something wet on his face, his fucking background until they went to fucking college where he finally changed it when the professor who saw it found it highly unprofessional and reported about it to his father—Tubbo had told him about the face their father had with tears streaming down his face, holding his stomach with laughter as he tried to explain ‘inappropriate image’ had had them both thinking Dream had porn as his background.)

He didn’t like college away from the tea shop. Sure, he wasn’t that far and came home every weekend from the dorm he shared with Dream. Sure, he liked the way his fellow students were nerds like him. Sure, he liked having Dream in his dorm room (even though sapnap, a kid year under them, had been invited after a senior left they never really knew much about between their freshman and sophomore year as well with Illumina, a kid their age, coming in as well to fill the four person dorm— it was still nice). Sure, he liked him major a lot. But he just—he just couldn’t help how he felt, how his heart hurt knowing he wasn’t at the tea shop anymore with Wilbur having a college far closer to the point he could live at the place still and go home by bus every day. It simply didn’t work for Techno, he’d sit in Dreams car every Friday for hours just to be back Saturday and Sunday then come back on Monday (leave early to come for a midday class then go to their dorm and sleep—sometimes leave late on Sunday and sleep during the day on Monday). The tea shop felt so much more homey than this, he missed the way his home was back then, he missed home in general. Sure, Dream was home, Dream will forever be home. He’s his best (and for a long time, only outside of family) friend and that makes him his home. But his real home, the tea shop, felt so far away. And fuck it felt bad and cold and even the shit teabags from the shop nearby could only satisfy his homesickness so much (it helped when Phil gave some from the shop, he’d only drink them when he was close to crying because they were limited though). Dream noticed how he was, asked him if it was possible to do his major online so he could go home (Techno had genuinely laughed at the idea, reminded of Dream skipping to have online school after him and Techno barely had classes together anymore and especially when Techno broke his leg and did schoolwork online for quite a long while because of it—Dream stayed with him in the tea shop after he got to do online school too, that being after he threatened to break his own leg to get online school. Techno called him an idiot for it.)

Somehow they both lasted long enough to graduate, Dream excitedly looking forwards to the opportunity to teach coding at a school and Techno somehow getting to teach English in the same school. Had been a dream come from true really, considering they never intentionally wanted to only work at a place together. And also because they actually both wanted to teach something or another and it was so fitting for Dream to go for coding and Techno to go for English they felt happy for each other. They felt happier when they both would work at their old high school, so close to the tea shop they could practically go for lunch or any break they could possibly want to have there, just a few blocks from the school stood the magnificent, red tiled, tea shop. Just across from their workplace stood the place that made their friendship, a place they never thought they would get to be so close to.

Did they perhaps move together again for the time being close to the tea shop and end up continuing the tradition of playing chess every Thursday they made up in college? Why who knows? What would be the fun in ratting it out what they would do—meaning yes.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 16 was free day and I just wrote something so.

Everyone has gone their way by now, he notes standing in front of the ruins of his home—the place his father took years to build into what it was before he blew it up. He knows it’s stupid to feel like falling to his knees, his fingers quietly pressing the ground as he bites his lip. It’s all gone, he doesn’t know if he wants to build it back like the others. He was there for so much, for how the grounds grew independent and strong, he was Wilbur’s son for all that went on and he was Wilbur’s helper for everything. His suit of crayon colours, he knows where he has it hidden now that he’s wearing just his jacket instead. His mind has hesitance, his eyes show hesitance in a way he never wanted to express it. His father is gone, his mother died long ago and his father disappeared in times long past in ways he can’t explain—the man he looked up to didn’t die today, didn’t die with the body who used to host him. His father died years ago, his father lost his love for him for the war in a way that became irreversible. Wilbur was never moral but the moment his child and two child soldiers became his army marked a decline he wishes he could’ve seen coming now.

He came to the world with his mothers name at first, Fundy came later, his eyes were Wilbur’s brown. And now he’s feeling his heart, tears streaming down his face, because his father is gone. His father who would pet his head and tell him he was proud of him—the dad who hugged him when he said he was a boy instead of his daughter, the man who called him ‘son’ when they stood in the hallway of their heart. That man, any possible way he could come back, is gone now.

He sees Techno, far away in a way that almost represents how far he feels from anything connected to his father, his legs dragging him towards the place he knew for a fact to be Wilbur’s death place, asking for some clarity in his mind as a laughing Dream flashes in the corner of his eye—some fucking fiancé, his fiancé’s father is dead and instead he’s talking with George without even looking over. He doesn’t have time to be hurt that George is favoured against him, he doesn’t have time to scream at Dream that it’s his fault Fundy is a fucking orphan now.

He doesn’t know what to say anymore, his body dragged to the room with frantic scribbles all around—writing of Wilbur’s, his paw presses up against one with a shaky breath with tears streaming down his face with his shoulders going up and down with heavy and quick breaths as he continues to fall to hysterics. His grandfather doesn’t accept him, why would he? Techno is the reason he is here, on some level he must be, techno is an anarchist and probably made this happen. Tommy is upset, too upset to talk to him. All the family he has left is abandoning him too, he wonders what he can do anymore if he’s left all alone. He wishes he had just been with Schlatt, maybe he’d have Dream care then. He wishes he noticed Wilbur going insane and knew what to do. He wishes Dream didn’t clearly cheat on him or at least not have interest in him at all, he wishes his fiancé was here comforting him or didn’t give the TNT at all.

His fingers drag to a guitar, tears making it too hard to say a word or to let even a breath pass as he starts running his finger down it, taking it in his lap and playing uselessly.

I heard there was a special place, where men could go and emancipate the tyranny and the bloodlust of their rulers. Well this place is real you needn’t fret, with Wilbur Tommy Tubbo fuck Eret. It’s a very big and not blown up L’manberg.

“My L’manberg, my L’manberg, my L’maaaaaanberg.”

His head turns, Niki standing there with this small sad smile that he wishes he could return. He wishes he could smile, even fake, for Niki. But he can’t, everything is aching and hurting and when Niki sits next to him and goes to comfort him he fucking growls and pulls the guitar closer with a whine—he’s too distraught to use words by now, lip trembling. He breathes in and out, Niki smiling.

“Wilbur, Wilbur was a good man,” Niki expresses, shakily, “Wilbur had a lot of great ideas and did great things, don’t let how he went taint him for you. Your father, he, your father adored you. Your father was so good for so long.”

“I know,” Fundy whispers, looking over to Niki with an attempt at smiling that fails, “Wilbur raised me. I’m just—there’s so much we could’ve done! We should’ve done!”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Niki expresses, taking out a flower and running her thumb over it, “Wilbur did it to himself, if anything could’ve been done we would’ve done it. There’s so much we should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. But he’s away and—and that means that we can’t do it but take this as a lesson moving forward in our life. Take Wilbur as a lesson. Take what happened to your father and make sure it never happens like this again.”

“I don’t know if I truly want to follow Tubbo,” Fundy expresses, slowly looking to Niki with guilt, “Or I’m doing it because it feels like sane Wilbur would’ve seen it as the best choice. I don’t know if Wilbur would want me to just lose it and leave but some part of me needs to be alone. Some part of me wants to join Techno and Phil, they’re family and they knew dad. Maybe they’d accept me.”

“I have a secret base a bit from here,” Niki tells him, honestly, after a moment of silence with her flower, “Wilbur’s diamonds are there, if you want a reminder. We can stay there just a moment, we can come back later. Or maybe we can be there for longer than that. So you can figure it out.”

“The diamonds he gave you?” Fundy asks, perking up, “Everything he gave me he blew up or destroyed already, I have the suit but pretty much everything else is gone.”

“You can have one,” Niki responds, handing him the flower as well with a slight smile, “Wilbur helped me plant the original ones. They’re long parts of potions or dead but I thought it would work. It’s the son of the original bush.”

He can’t help the sob, hand grabbing the guitar with the flower in his other hand. The walls show a long shadow, his ears perking up in a way that lets him listen better. But no words come from this person, just the crunching of the boots, until he’s face to face with Techno and his world feels like it’s crumbling again. He wants to be mad at him, he does, he wants to be so mad at Techno and scream and rip the crown from his head but instead nothing is heard, nothing but a small whimper.

“You’re his son?”

The question is so simple, monotonous and clear. He wonders if it means something, anything, nodding to confirm that he indeed is Wilbur’s son as Techno pulls out his sword. Niki panics, he doesn’t, standing his ground with eyes on the other man before his uncle takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know how to—I’m really bad at emotions. I’m socially awkward and anxious, I’m not good at this. But. You lost your father today, I lost my brother, dad lost his son. And dad is not going to accept you for a while. It’s surprising actually, I thought he would convince me to accept you and I’d go through a whole arc. But even I can tell you’re hurt. And I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry for my morals, I’m not sorry for being right, I’m not sorry for the way Wilbur decided to follow me, I’m not sorry he’s dead. I don’t have a reason to apologise, I did nothing wrong, so if you seek that of me that’s more than I can give. And I’m talking, a lot, that’s not something I do a lot. I’m not sorry your dad made this choice.”

“I got it,” Fundy expresses, so close to crying he can’t even keep going so he nods for Tevhno to continue instead.

“But. If you want to hear about your dad, I’m his older brother. If you want stories of him, of everything he did after and before you were born, of before he followed the anarchist path I walked from birth. If you need that to cope, I’m here. I’m not going to spare you, I’m not scared to hurt you if you cross me, but if you have a burial for my brother or a memorial or what you may call it. When you let my brother go, I would like to say a few words. I’m shit at them, he was a guy with a tongue of silver and sharp as a dagger and I held the literal silver dagger in my hand—but if you hold anything for him, I want to go. And if you want to hear about him, you know where my secret base is.”

They stand in silence for a moment before Techno coughs and stumbles again, Fundy says a ‘thank you’ with a   
quietness in his tone with the slight shake that reveals he’s close to crying. Techno doesn’t hesitate leaving, techno doesn’t try to comfort him for even a second because he knows his role and knows where to go. Techno knows it isn’t his job to comfort Fundy, knows he can’t.

At least he did better than Dream. He doesn’t even care about fundy much, he barely gives two fucks about him, but he’s his brother's son. Dream’s not going after his fiancé, Techno thinks he should’ve said no to Fundy’s proposal if he did not want to care for him. If he didn’t want to care for Fundy, didn’t want to check up on the boy or didn’t want to make sure his fiancé would at least be safe. He doesn’t even bother looking up from his conversation with Sapnap, he doesn’t bother for a second.

Fundy grips the horse with care, trying to not hurt it while still holding on enough to sort of vent his emotions, following Niki obediently with Wilbur’s guitar and his head all messy from everything, from Jschlatt attacking him and his now dead father being the only person to defend him, telling him he’s not a man and beating him—Fighting his fiancé, his dad dying—everything is so mixed up and fucked and he feels like he has to throw up from grief and just confusion. 

He finally is important to the administration, he’s finally important, he’s finally got a job. Yet he’s never wanted to run, just run until nobody can see him and nobody has even heard of him. He wants his mother, fuck he wants his father, he wants his mother and her embrace he doesn’t even remember anymore, her hands he doesn’t remember the texture of. He wants to be held by his family, Dream or dad or mum, but none of them can. None of them care enough, two of them are dead and one is making him regret giving him his heart. He doesn’t even know what to say anymore, he’s regretting everything he did from a small child and even as Niki shows him around the base and tells stories he doesn’t know how to focus enough to talk to her, he’s clouded and confused thinking over things over and over again.

What the fuck is he even supposed to do now?


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even more late because big projects. Today is pillow fort! Well 17th was y’know.
> 
> Sleepy boys inc (with PHILZA mostly absent for a reason—story wise I mean).
> 
> Also almost accurate age differences, Wilbur is 16, Techno is 14 and Tommy is 8.

Wilbur doesn’t love it when his father goes to work, when he leaves money and he’s left to ‘look after’ his siblings. Sure, Techno is more mature than him, but Techno can also be uncaring and thoughtless and Phil likes his adopted children alive instead of burning themselves in an oven because they went feral—Tommy is off the walls after all, it’s simply in his personality to jump off of the walls around him and scream loudly about already being old enough to not be babysat—that being said he cries afterwards, he cries a lot after he’s left alone and starts poking techno to sword fight with him (if asked, Tommy doesn’t cry. Tommy is a man. When Wilbur tries to explain crying doesn’t make you not a man, Techno laughs in the background or Tommy says he wants to be the strongest man ever. It’s never something that WORKS when it comes to Tommy and his worryingly toxic eight year old masculinity. Wilbur sometimes says techno has ruined him with his dryness, which Techno refuses to take and says Wilbur literally eats sand and that makes him significantly dryer than him. Phil had to ground them because Tommy was telling them to fight, Wilbur was tearing up and Techno had a red cheek from Wilbur slapping him. Good times.)

“What do you want to do?” Wilbur questions, Phil leaving with a mention that techno is in charge of the food—that’s not surprising, Techno can cook and he can order food better than Wilbur so (Wilbur keeps the delivery men far too long and somehow burns eggs to a crisp perfectly—it’s never salvageable but never far off. It’s like he intentionally stops when it’s not salvageable though Wilbur insists it’s not true.). Wilbur’s two brothers have completely different reactions to the question, Techno shrugging and turning back to his phone while Tommy claps his hands and practically yells he wants to watch a movie—ouch, Wilbur will go deaf with the kid here. He should’ve hid by going to Fundy’s or something—probably George’s house (if he would let him in—he has a bad habit of screaming ‘GOGY GOGY GOGY BARK BARK BARK’ until the other man lets him in or he loses his voice. He took Tommy once, the boy also learned the art of screaming Gogy on a street midday while banging on a door while a guy inside screams out a window that he will call the fucking police if you don’t fucking leave. Ah, the most entertaining activity after making Techno question why he even was born into the cruel world they live in.)

“Can we make a pillow fort?” Tommy asks, surprisingly polite, clapping his hands. Techno looks up at Wilbur from the sofa, as if to indicate ‘well c’mon now he’s waiting for you to build it with him’, “Please Blade? Please build a fort with me?”

The expression on his face changes to utter and complete terror instead, the same uncaring face with the slightest extra turns of his face, the eyebrows slightly higher and the grasp on his phone slightly lighter—everything is light but Techno has been his brother for nearly ten years (actually, ten years, Wilbur got adopted by Phil when he was six. That makes him the oldest in the ‘age when you got adopted’ with Techno getting adopted at like two years old and Tommy nearing three.)

“Yeah techno, don’t be a bad brother,” Wilbur confirms with a grin and Tommy grabs Techno’s hand. The younger teen looks at his older brother with absolute and complete hate in his eyes, Wilbur just continuing to bully him, “Technoblade, I could tell on you. Dad’d be so mad if you made Tommy sad like this—I’ll fetch the laptop and you two can build the fort!”

“I’ll be a bad brother to you,” Techno speaks with a roll of his eyes, Wilbur copying his action to be funny, “I’ll tell dad about the coke bomb.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Wilbur exclaims. Long story short, Wilbur built a bomb out of coke and tic tacs plus few other things that genuinely broke a glass bottle and it accidentally went off a while ago and Phil had believed it to be an accident instead of a deliberate bomb (though he did tell techno he was not mad if Techno made it blow up—he didn’t press when techno said he hadn’t.)

“You’re building the fort, I’ll get the laptop,” Techno replies coolly, back to his phone with a shrug.

“It’s literally my laptop, you build the fort and don’t tell dad that I built the bomb and I won’t tell dad you stole twenty dollars from me yesterday,” Wilbur argues, Tommy watching while chanting fight yet again, “Tommy asked for you, you can’t let him down.”

“I can,” Techno replies casually, sitting further into the sofa with a shrug, “Maybe I will too. You’re the one in charge. If Tommy is crying when dad comes home, he’ll blame you.”

“Not if Tommy says you were mean to him.”  
“Tommy ain’t a snitch. Don’t try to make him one just to get me in trouble. Snitches get stitches, Wilbur.”  
“You wouldn’t hurt your brother, I know you too well.”  
“It’s still an orphan technically, you know how I love beating them up, Wilbur.”

However techno does end up building the fort, phone in his pocket as Tommy practically pulls the whole closet full of leftover bed stuff (mostly from when their cousins, Dream and Tubbo, come over. Or Fundy, Wilbur’s friend, Techno and him are in the same class and he doesn’t seem all that special in his honest opinion. He does think fundy is fun enough though.)

“Get me chairs!” Tommy commands, Techno standing there for a moment thinking about saying ‘get them yourself’ before he realises okay this is his six years younger brother maybe he should be nicer than that—just do Phil doesn’t beat with him a sandal or something.

So he gets three chairs from the kitchen, Tommy excitedly putting them in place and putting a cloth on top with smile, putting his brothers and his school bags on the chairs to keep the cloth from moving then putting another cloth on top, Technp sort of just standing there—why does he want him here again? He’s not all that good with 3D building, he doesn’t like how it works. He can try but he’s just not good at making these kinds of things.

Tommy seems to notice, from his excitement, biting his lip with a shaky breath as tears start to fall out his eyes, putting a few more pillows in place quietly without his previous laughs while Techno wonders what made him upset—what the fuck is happening.

He does the only thing he can think of doing, yeeting a pillow at his brother. The poor small blond isn’t ready and falls on the floor, now openly sobbing with Techno’s head just going into ‘i Don’t Know What To D O—WILBUR’ mode.

“WILBUR!” Techno screams, Wilbur running down the stairs with the laptop as techno points to the smallest of the three, Wilbur raising an eyebrow then looking back to Techno for some explanation as to why their little brother is having a meltdown, “I don’t know why it’s crying but it’s crying what do I do?”

Wilbur sighs, handing Techno the laptop and getting on his knees in front of Tommy, “What’s wrong?”

“Does-does he hate me?” Tommy asks from between sobs, Techno hiding behind his hand as he has a sudden realisation.

“What? Techno?” Wilbur asks—steady, putting Tommy inside the fort with a smile. Tommy’s still crying.

“Y-yeah. I think he hates me, Wilbur. He didn’t want to build the fort with me,” Tommy speaks, quietly, “Do you hate me too?”

“Nobody hates you, nerd,” Techno responds, slightly unsure, Wilbur looking at him like he cursed in front of a small child, “If someone does, I will beat him up.”

“But you always seem so mad at me!” Tommy accuses, pointing at Techno then Wilbur, “You both act like you don’t like me!”

“I don’t intentionally, I like you a lot,” Wilbur says, ruffling the eight years old hair to a slight giggle.

“I’m just stupid,” Techno expresses, pointing towards himself, “I’ve never had a younger br—well Wilbur, I was in this town before Wilbur. What I mean is I never had to care for anybody and I’m not too good with sociability in general. I’m just kidding you, to be honest, I’ve never hated you. I just—I just treat everyone the same and I’m stupid about that shit and like it won’t change much but if you need me to try to give you like a hug—wait no ew—if you want like words of encouragement, tell me.”

“Surprisingly emotional, Blade.”  
“Wilbur I have an air-soft gun just to shoot you with, don’t you dare.”  
“Techno I, in fact, know where that gun is. I’m closer to it than you, I can hold it over my head.”  
“I’ll kick you in the dick, watch me.”  
“Try me, piggy.”  
“Sure will, wannabe Justin Bieber.”  
“BAAABY BAAABY BAAAABY!”  
“Get off me you possessed ed sheeran!”

Tommy pulls them both into the fort, giggling as Wilbur takes the laptop from Techno with a simple ‘thank you’. He opens it, logs in, and looks over a few movies.

“Tommy if you don’t tell on us, we’ll let you watch the winter soldier with us,” Techno says, practically reading Wilbur’s mind and making Tommy nod excitedly—oh to be under 13 excited about the fact you can watch pg 13 movies, he missed year and like 7 months ago when he was 12 and giddy like this.

When Phil comes home a few hours later, he finds the pillow fort with Tommy and Wilbur fallen asleep with Techno seemingly asleep as well, making note that he did come pretty late but he expected to have at least Wilbur or Techno still up, maybe Tommy rushing to him and asking to be held if the two others did really badly with him on a particular day—otherwise it’s mostly techno and fairly often Wilbur as well.

He puts down the groceries, going over to his sons and pulling some covers over them so they don’t freeze their asses off, almost laughing when the laptop boots up to Minecraft (more specifically they seem to have been listening to discs—which he does think it very adorable. Also the fort, the fort is very cute). He grabs the nearly dead laptop and puts it in its charger then going over to put the groceries away, attempting to remain quiet the whole time.

He really loves his boys, hopes they had a good day.

He also hopes Wilbur didn’t set off more bombs.


End file.
